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Vol. 13. No. 614. Nov. 11, 1885. Annual Subscription, $30.00. 


Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., as second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1884, by John W. Lovell Co. 




(RIWEEiaY PUBLICATION OF THE BEST CURRENT & STANDARD LITERATURE 


NEW-YORK 


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30 Cents 


THE WIGWAM 

AND CABIN 

BY 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

Author of “THE PARTISAN,” “ MELLICHAMPE,” 
“THE SCOUT,” Etc., Etc. 


I D"BITSi?3® S/ 


THE BEST LITERARY AND } -at all- 
HUIOROUS WEEKLY PUBLISHED. \ newstands. 





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11 i 


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THE 


WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 



BY W. GILMOBE SIMMS, 

•i 

AUTHOR OF “THE YEMASSEE,” “ THE FORAYERS,” “ EUTAW,” “ KATHARINE 
WALTON,” “ THE SCOUT,” “ RICHARD HURDIS,” “ VASCO NSELOS,” ETC. 


“ The ancient tales 
Which first I learned 
Will I relate.” 

Edda of Saemund. 



a rib <£Mfion, 


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NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street, 

1885 . 






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TO 


NASH ROACH, ESQ. 

OF SOUTH CAROLINA. 

My Dear Sir: 

When, many years ago, the stories in this volume were first 
collected and brought together in one body, I then inscribed their 
contents to you, as in proof “ of an affection which had steadily 
advanced with the progress of my acquaintance with your integ- 
rity and gentleness of character,” as displayed during a long 
period of the most delicate and intimate relationship and inter- 
course. Time has since then greatly lengthened this term of our 
intercourse, and still I have no reason to alter this inscription ; 
but, on the contrary, to deepen it rather, and to clothe its lines in 
warmer hues and colors, and, if possible, to fix the inscription in 
yet more imposing characters. 

It may be permitted me, through you, to say to the general 
reader, that the tales in this collection have been the accumulation 
of many years, ranging backward to the dawn of my earliest 
manhood. It is more easy, I find, to acknowledge their faults, 
than to amend or to excuse them. But, to be apologetic where 
it is not possible to atone, is only a sort of humiliation which one 
need not gratuitously incur. Enough, that, if I could bring my- 
self to the task, I might improve and amend my short-comings, 
and prune my excesses — I feel this — yet know not whether the 


4 


DEDICATION. 


value of the alteration would be sufficiently recognised to justify 
the labor. I find it much easier to invent a new story than to 
repair the defects of an old one. 

TJiese legends were mostly written for the annuals, in the pe- 
riod when annuals were supposed to be as essential to the Christ- 
mas and New Year holydays as the egg-noggin or the mince pie. 
But the expensive form of the annual kept it from the great body 
of readers ; and, besides, the annuals have gone the way of all 
mortal publications ! Gold and glitter could not save them ! — 
the pomp of heraldry, or the gorgeous blazonry of art; — and the 
self-esteem of authorship denies that one’s good things should be 
buried in the rust of that heraldric glare and glitter, by which 
they w T ere smothered from the first. When originally published, 
these stories were held to give signs of much more vitality than 
the medium in which they were so gorgeously encradled. They 
were thought by certain “ mouths of wisest censure,” to be better 
of favor than many of their companions ; and, though of elvish 
and gipsy complexion — with a wild stare of their own, and a 
peculiar visage — it was held, by some of the critics, that, for these 
very reasons — because of their answering truly for certain native 
characteristics, they merited a more permanent form of publica- 
tion. The author finds it easy to persuade himself that all tfcvj,. 
is sober sense and just judgment, and he has resolved and done 
accordingly. 

One word for the material of these legends. It is local, sec- 
tional — and to be national in literature, one must needs be sec- 
tional. No one mind can fully or fairly illustrate the character- 
istics of any great country; and he who shall depict one section 
faithfully, has made his proper and sufficient contribution to the 
great work of national illustration. I can answer for it, confi- 
dently, that these legends represent, in large degree, the border 
history of the south. I can speak with confidence of the general 
truthfulness of its treatment. I have seen the life — have lived 


DEDICATION. 


5 


it — and much of my material is the result of a very early per- 
sonal experience. The life of the planter* the squatter, the In- 
dian, and the negro — the bold and hardy pioneer, the vigorous 
yeoman — these are the subjects. In their delineation I have 
mostly drawn from living portraits, and, in frequent instances, 
from actual scenes and circumstances within the memories of men. 
More need not be said. I need not apologize for the endeavor 
to cast over the actual that atmosphere from the realms of the 
ideal, which, while it constitutes the very element of fiction, is 
neither inconsistent with intellectual truthfulness, nor unfriendly 
to the great policies of human society. 

I must no longer trespass. Enough has been said for the pur 
poses of explanation, and more than enough, perhaps, by way ot 
apology. You, my dear sir, will but too friendlily regard neither 
apology nor explanation as at {ill necessary in the case ; but you 
will not object that I should, through you, proffer both to the 
general reader. Very truly and affectionately 

Your friend and servant, 

W. Gilmore Simms. 

Woodlands, S. C., 

September 20, 1856. ^ 














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THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


GRAYLING; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.” 


CHAPTER 1. 

The world has become monstrous matter-of-fact in latter days. 
We can no longer get a ghost story, either for love or money. 
The materialists have it all their own way; and even the little 
urchin, eight years old, instead of deferring with decent reverence 
to the opinions of his grandmamma, nqw stands up stoutly for his 
own. He believes in every “ ology” but pneumatology. “ Faust” 
and the “Old Woman of Berkeley” move his derision % only, and 
he would laugh incredulously, if he dared, at the Witch of En- 
dor. The whole armoury of modern reasoning is on his side ; 
and, however he may admit at seasons that belief can scarcely 
be counted a matter of will, he yet puts his veto on all sorts of 
credulity. That cold-blooded demon called Science has taken 
the place of all the other demons. He has certainly cast out in- 
numerable devils, however he may still spare the principal. 
Whether we are the better for his intervention is another ques- 
tion. There is reason to apprehend that in disturbing our human 
faith in shadows, we have lost some of those wholesome moral re- 
straints which might have kept many of us virtuous, where the 
laws could not. 

The effect, however, is much the more seriously evil in all that 
concerns the' romantic Our story-tellers are so resolute to deal 
in the real, the actual only, that they venture on no subjects the 
details of which are not equally vulgar and susceptible of proof. 
With this end in view, indeed, they too commonly choose their 

2 


s 


THE WIGWAM AND THE C \BIN. 


subjects among convicted felons, in order that they may avail them 
selves of the evidence which led to their conviction ; and, to prove 
more conclusively their devoted adherence to nature and the truth, 
they depict the former not only in her condition of nakedness, but 
long before she has found out the springs of running water. Il 
is to be feared that some of the coarseness of modern taste arises 
from the too great lack of that veneration which belonged to, 
and elevated to dignity, even the errors of preceding ages. A 
love of the marvellous belongs, it appears to me, to all those who 
love and cultivate either of the fine arts. I very much doubt 
whether the poet, the painter, the sculptor, or the romancer, ever 
yet lived, who had not some strong bias — a leaning, at least, — 
to a belief in the wonders of the invisible world. Certainly, the 
higher orders of poets and painters, those who create and invent, 
must have a strong taint of the superstitious in their composition. 
But this is digressive, and leads us from our purpose. 

It is so long since we have been suffered to see or hear of a 
ghost, that a visitation at this time may have the effect of novelty, 
and I propose to narrate a story which I heard more than once in 
my boyhood, from the lips of an aged relative, who succeeded, at 
the time, .in making me believe every word of it ; perhaps, for the 
simple reason that she convinced me she believed every word of 
it herself. My grandmother was an old lady who had been a res- 
ident of the seat of most frequent war in Carolina during the Rev- 
olution. She had fortunately survived the numberless atrocities 
which she was yet compelled to witness ; and, a keen observer, 
with a strong memory, she had in store a thousand legends of that 
stirring period, which served to beguile me from sleep many and 
many a long winter night. The story which I propose to tell was 
one of these ; and when I say that she not only devoutly believed 
it herself, but that it 'was believed by sundry of her contempora- 
ries, who were themselves privy to such of the circumstances as 
could be known to third parties, the gravity with which [ repeat 
the legend will not be considered very astonishing. 

The revolutionary war had but a little while been concluded. 
The British had left the country ; but peace did not imply repose. 
The community was still in that state of ferment which was natu- 
ral enough to passions, not yet at rest, which had been brought 


GRAYLING ; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT. ! 


3 


into exercise and action during the protracted seven years’ strug- 
gle through which the nation had just passed. The state was 
overrun by idlers, adventurers, profligates, and criminals. Dis- 
banded soldiers, half-starved and reckless, occupied the high way s t 
—outlaws, emerging from their hiding-places, skulked about the 
settlements with an equal sentiment of hate and fear in their 
hearts ; — patriots were clamouring for justice upon the tories, and 
sometimes anticipating its course by judgments of their own ; 
while the tories, those against whom the proofs were too strong 
for denial or evasion, buckled on their armour for a renewal of 
the struggle. Such being the condition of the country, it may ea- 
sily be supposed that life and property lacked many of their neces- 
sary securities. Men generally travelled with weapons which 
were displayed on the smallest provocation : and few who could 
provide themselves with an escort ventured to travel any distance 
without one. 

There was, about this time, said my grandmother, and while 
such was the condition of the country, a family of the name of 
Grayling, that lived somewhere upon the skirts of “ Ninety-six ” 
district. Old Grayling, the head of the family, was dead. He 
was killed in Buford’s massacre. His wife was a fine woman, 
not so very old, who had an only son named James, and a little 
girl, only five years of age, named Lucy. James was but four- 
teen when his father was killed, and that event made a man of 
him. He went out with his rifle in company with Joel Sparkman, 
who was his mother’s brother, and joined himself to Pickens’s 
Brigade. Here he made as good a soldier as the best. He had 
no sort of fear. He was always the first to go forward ; and his 
rifle was always good for his enemy’s button at a long hundred 
yards. He was in several fights both with the British and tories ; 
and just before the war was ended he had a famous brush with 
the Cherokees, when Pickens took their country from them. But 
though he had no fear, and never knew when to stop killing while 
the fight was going on, he was the most bashful of boys that I ever 
knew ; and so kind-hearted that it was almost impossible to be- 
lieve all we heard of his fierce doings when he was in battle. 
But they were nevertheless quite true for all his bashfulness. 

Well, when the war was over, Joel Sparkman, who lived with 


4 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


his sister, Grayling, persuaded her that it would be better to move 
down into the low country. I don’t know what reason he had 
for it, or what they proposed to do there. They had very little 
property, but Sparkman was a knowing man, who could turn 
his hand to a hundred things ; and as he was a bachelor, and 
loved his sister and her children just as if they had been his own, 
it was natural that she should go with him wherever he wished. 
James, too, who was restless by nature — and the taste he had en- 
joyed of the wars had made him more so — he was full of it ; and 
so, one sunny morning in April, their wagon started for the city. 
The wagon was only a small one, with two horses, scarcely 
larger than those that are employed to carry chickens and fruit 
to the market from the Wassamaws and thereabouts. It was 
driven by a negro fellow named Clytus, and carried Mrs. Gray- 
ling and Lucy. James and his uncle loved the saddle too well 
to shut themselves up in such a vehicle ; and both of them were 
mounted on fine horses which they had won from the enemy. 
The saddle that James rode on, — and he was very proud of it, — 
was one that he had taken at the battle of Cowpens from one of 
Tarleton’s own dragoons, after he had tumbled the owner. The 
roads at that season were excessively bad, for the rains of March 
had been frequent and heavy, the track was very much cut up, and 
the red clay gullies of the hills of “ Ninety-six'” were so washed 
that it required all shoulders, twenty times a day, to get the wag- 
on-wheels out of the bog. This made them travel very slowly, 
— perhaps, not more than, fifteen miles a day. Another cause 
for slow travelling was, the necessity of great caution, and a 
constant look-out for enemies both up and down the road. James 
and his uncle took it by turns to ride a-head, precisely as they 
did when scouting in war, but one of them always kept along 
with the wagon. They had gone on this way for two days, and 
saw nothing to trouble and alarm them. There were few per- 
sons on the high-road, and these seemed to the full as shy of them 
as they probably were of strangers. But just as they were about 
to camp, the evening of the second day, while they were splitting 
light- wood, and getting out the kettles and the frying-pan, a per- 
son rode up and joined them without much ceremony. He was 
r short thick-set man, somewhere between forty and fifty : had 


GRAYLING ; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


on very coarse and common garments, though he rode a fine black 
horse of remarkable strength and vigour. He was very civil of 
speech, though he had but little to say, and that little showed him 
lo be a person without much education and with no refinement. He 
begged permission to make one of the encampment, and his man- 
ner was very respectful and even humble ; but there was some- 
thing dark and sullen in his face — his eyes, which were of a light 
gray colour, were very restless, and his nose turned up sharply, 
and was very red. His forehead was excessively broad, and his 
eyebrows thick and shaggy — white hairs being freely mingled 
with the dark, both in them and upon his head. Mrs. Grayling 
did not like this man’s looks, and whispered her dislike to her 
son ; but James, who felt himself equal to any man, said, 
promptly — 

“ What of that, mother ! we can’t turn the stranger off and say 
‘no ;’ and if he means any mischief, there’s two of us, you know.” 

The man had no weapons — none, at least, which were then 
visible ; and deported himself in so humble a manner, that the 
prejudice which the party had formed against him when he first 
appeared, if it was not dissipated while he remained, at least 
failed to gain any increase. He was very quiet, did not mention 
an unnecessary word, and seldom permitted his eyes to rest upon 
those of any of the party, the females not excepted. This, per- 
haps, was the only circumstance, that, in the mind of Mrs. Gray- 
ling, tended to confirm the nostile impression which his coming 
had originally occasioned. In a little while the temporary en- 
campment was put in a state equally social and warlike. The 
wagon was wheeled a little way into the woods, and off the road ; 
the horses fastened behind it in such a manner that any attempt 
to steal them would be difficult of success, even were the watch 
neglectful which was yet to be maintained upon them. Extra 
guns, concealed in the straw at the bottom of the wagon, were kept 
well loaded. In the foreground, and between the wagon and the 
highway, a fire was soon blazing with a wild but cheerful gleam ; 
and the worthy dame, Mrs. Grayling, assisted by the little girl, 
Lucy, lost no time in setting on the frying-pan, and cutting into 
slices the haunch of bacon, which they had provided at leaving 
home. James Grayling patrolled the woods, meanwhile for a 


6 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


mile or two round the encampment, while his uncle, Joel Spark- 
man, foot to foot with the stranger, seemed — if the absence of all 
care constitutes the supreme of human felicity — to realize the 
most perfect conception of mortal happiness. But Joel was very 
far from being the careless person that he seemed. Like an old 
soldier, he simply hung out false colours, and concealed his real 
timidity by an extra show of confidence and courage. He did 
not relish the stranger from the first, any more than his sister ; 
and having subjected him to a searching examination, such as 
was considered, in those days of peril and suspicion, by no means 
inconsistent with becoming courtesy, he came rapidly to the con- 
clusion that he was no better than he should be. 

“ You are a Scotchman, stranger,” said Joel, suddenly draw- 
ing up his feet, and bending forward to the other with an eye 
like that of a hawk stooping over a covey of partridges. It was a 
wonder that he had not made the discovery before. The broad 
dialect of the stranger was not to be subdued ; but Joel made slow 
stages and short progress in his mental journeyings. The answer 
was given with evident hesitation, but it was affirmative. 

“ Well, now, it’s mighty strange that you should ha’ fou’t with 
us and not agin us,” responded Joel Sparkman. “There was a 
precious few of the Scotch, and none that I knows on, saving 
yourself, perhaps, — that didn’t go dead agin us, and for the tories, 
through thick and thin. That c Cross Creek settlement’ was a 
mighty ugly thorn in the sides of us whigs. It turned out a raal 
bad stock of varmints. I hope, — I reckon, stranger, — you aint 
from that part.” 

“No,” said the other; “oh no! I’m from over the other 
quarter. I’m from the Duncan settlement above.” 

“ I’ve hearn tell of that other settlement, but I never know’d 
as any of the men fou’t with us. What gineral did yOu fight 
under ? What Carolina gineral ?” 

“ I was at Gum Swamp when General Gates was defeated ;” 
was the still hesitating reply of the other. 

“ Well, I thank God, I warn’t there, though I reckon things 
wouldn’t ha’ turned out quite so bad, if there had been a leetle 
sprinkling of Sumter’s, or Pickens’s, or Ma rion’s men, among them 
two-legged critters that run that day. T hey did tell that some of 


7 


GRAYLING ; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT. 

.he regiments went off without ever once emptying theii rifles. 
Now, stranger, I hope you warn’t among them fellows.” 

“ I was not,” said the other with something more of prompt- 
ness. 

“ I don’t blame a chap for dodging a bullet if he can, or being 
too quick for a bagnet, because, I’m thinking, a live man is al- 
ways a better man than a dead one, or he can become so ; but to 
run without taking a single crack at the inimy, is downright cow- 
ardice. There’s no two ways about it, stranger.” 

This opinion, delivered with considerable emphasis, met with 
the ready assent of the Scotchman, but Joel Sparkman was not 
to be diverted, even by his own eloquence, from the object of his 
inquiry. 

“ But you ain’t said,” he continued, “ who was your Carolina 
gineral. Gates was from Yirginny, and he stayed a mighty short 
time when he come. You didn’t run far at Camden, J reckon, 
and you joined the army ag’in, and come in with Greene? Was 
that the how ?” 

To this the stranger assented, though with evident disinclination. 

“ Then, mou’tbe, we sometimes went into the same scratch to- 
gether ? I was at Cowpens and Ninety-Six, and seen sarvice at 
other odds and eends, where there was more fighting than fun. 
I reckon you must have been at ‘ Ninety-Six,’ — perhaps at Cow- 
pens, too, if you went with Morgan ?” 

The unwillingness of the stranger to respond to tnese questions 
appeared to increase. He admitted, however, that he had been 
at “ Ninety-Six,” though, as Sparkman afterwards remembered, 
in this case, as in that of the defeat of Gates at Gum Swamp, he 
had not said on which side he had fought. Joel, as he discovered 
the reluctance of his guest to answer his questions, and perceived 
his growing doggedness, forbore to annoy him, but mentally re- 
solved to keep a sharper look-out than ever upon his motions. 
His examination concluded with an inquiry, which, in the plain- 
dealing regions of the south and south-west, is not unfrequently 
put first. 

“ And what mout be your name, stranger ?” 

“ Macnab,” was the ready response, “ Sandy Macnab.” 

u Well, Mr. Macnab I see that my sister’s got supper ready 


8 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


for us; so we mou’t as well fall to upon the hoecake and bacon.” 

Sparkman rose while speaking, and led the way to the spot, neai 
the wagon, where Mrs. Grayling had spread the feast. “ We’ie 
pretty nigh on to the main road, here, but I reckon there’s no 
great danger now. Besides, Jim Grayling keeps watch for us, 
and he’s got two as good eyes in his head as any scout in the 
country, and a rifle that, after you once know how it shoots, 
’twould do your heart good to hear its crack, if so be that twa’n’t 
your heart that he drawed sight on. He’s a perdigious fine shot, 
and as ready to shoot and fight as if he had a nateral calling that 
way.” 

“Shall we wait for him before we eat?” demanded Macnab, 
anxiously. 

“ By no sort o’ reason, stranger,” answered Sparkman. 
“ He’ll watch for us while we’re eating, and after that I’ll change 
shoes with him. So fall to, and don’t mind what’s a coming.” 

Sp^fkman had just broken the hoecake, when a distant whistle 
was heard. 

“ Ha ! That’s the lad now !” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. 
“ He’s on trail. He’s got a sight of an inimy’s fire, I reckon. 
’Twon’t be on reasonable, friend Macnab, to get our we’pons in 
readiness;” and, so speaking, Sparkman bid his sister get into the 
wagon, where the little Lucy had already placed herself, while 
he threw open the pan of his rifle, and turned the priming over 
with his finger. Macnab, meanwhile, had taken from his hol- 
sters, which he had before been sitting upon, a pair of horseman’s 
pistols, richly mounted with figures in silver. These were large 
and long, and had evidently seen service. Unlike his companion, 
his proceedings occasioned no comment. What he did seemed a 
matter of habit, of which he himself was scarcely conscious. 
Having looked at his priming, he laid the instruments beside him 
without a word, and resumed the bit of hoecake which he had 
just before received from Sparkman. Meanwhile, the signal 
whistle, supposed to come from James Grayling, was repeated. 
Silence ensued then for a brief space, which Sparkman employed 
in perambulating the grounds immediately contiguous. At length, 
just as he had returned to the fire, the sound of a horse’s feet 
was heard, and a sharp quick halloo from Grayling informed his 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


9 


uncle that all was right. The youth made his appearance a 
moment after accompanied by a stranger on horseback ; a tall, 
fine-looking young man, with a keen flashing eye, and a voice 
whose lively clear tones, as he was heard approaching, sounded 
cheerily like those of a trumpet after victory. James Grayling 
kept along on foot beside the new-comer ; and his hearty laugh, 
and free, glib, garrulous tones, betrayed to his uncle, long ere he 
drew nigh enough to declare the fact, that he had met unexpect- 
edly with a friend, or, at least, an old acquaintance. 

“ Why, who have you got there, James ?” was the demand of 
Sparkman, as he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground. 

“ Why, who do you think, uncle ? Who but Major Spencer — 
our own major ?” 

“ You don’t say so ! — what ! — well ! Li’nel Spencer, for sar- 
tin ! Lord bless you, major, who’d ha’ thought to see you in 
these parts; and jest mounted too, for all natur, as if the war was 
to be fou’t over ag’in. Well, I’m raal glad to see you. I am. 
.hat’s sartin !” 

“ And I’m very glad to*see you, Sparkman,” said the other, 
as he alighted from his steed, and yielded his hand to the cordial 
grasp of the other. 

“ Well, I knows that, major, without you saying it. But 
you’ve jest come in the right time. The bacon’s frying, and 
here’s the bread ; — let’s down upon our haunches, in right good 
airnest, camp fashion, and make the most of what God gives us 
in the way of blessings. I reckon you don’t mean to ride any 
further to-night, major?” 

“ No,” said the person addressed, “ not if you’ll let me lay my 
heels at your fire. But who’s in your wagon ? My old friend, 
Mrs. Grayling, I suppose ?” 

“ That’s a true word, major,” said the lady herself, making her 
way out of the vehicle with good-humoured agility, and coming 
forward with extended hand. 

“ Really, Mrs. Grayling, I’m very glad to see you.” And 
the stranger, with the blandness of a gentleman and the hearty 
warmth of an old neighbour, expressed Jus satisfaction at once 
more finding himself in the company of an old acquaintance. 
Their greetings once over, Major Spencer readily joined the 


10 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


group about the fire, while James Grayling — though with soma 
eluetance — disappeared to resume his toils of the scout while the 
Bupper proceeded. 

“ And who have you here ?” demanded Spencer, as his eye 
rested on the dark, hard features of the Scotchman. Sparkman 
told him all that he himself had learned of the name and charac- 
ter of the stranger, in a brief whisper, and in a moment after 
formally introduced the parties in this fashion — 

“ Mr. Macnab, Major Spencer. Mr. Macnab says he’s true 
blue, major, and fou’t at Camden, when General Gates run so 
hard to ‘ bring the d — d militia back.’ He also fou’t at Ninety- 
Six, and Cowpens — so I reckon we had as good as count him one 
of us.” 

Major Spencer scrutinized the Scotchman keenly — a scrutiny 
which the latter seemed very ill to relish. He put a few ques- 
tions to him on the subject of the war, and some of the actions in 
which he allowed himself to have been concerned ; but his evi- 
dent reluctance to unfold himself — a reluctance so unnatural to 
the brave soldier who has gone through his toils honourably — had 
the natural effect of discouraging the young officer, whose sense 
of delicacy had not been materially impaired amid the rude jost- 
lings of military life. But, though he forbore to propose any 
other questions to Macnab, his eyes continued to survey the fea- 
tures of his sullen countenance with curiosity and a strangely 
increasing interest. This he subsequently explained to Spark- 
man, when, at the close of supper, James Grayling came in, and 
the former assumed the duties of the scout. 

“ I have seen that Scotchman’s face somewhere, Sparkman, 
and I’m convinced at some interesting moment ; but where, when, 
or how, I cannot call to mind. The sight of it is even associated 
in my mind with something painful and unpleasant ; where could 
I have seen him ?” 

“ I don’t somehow like his looks myself,” said Sparkman, “and 
I mislists he’s been rether more of a tory than a whig; but that’s 
nothing to the purpose now ; and he’s at our fire, and we’ve 
broken hoecake together ; so we cannot rake up the old ashes to 
make a dust with.” 

“ No, surelv not,” was the reply of Spencer. “ Even though 


GRAYLING ; DR, “ MURDER WILL OUT. 5 


11 


we knew him to be a tory, that cause of former quarrel should 
occasion none now. But it should produce watchfulness and 
caution. I’m glad to see that you have not forgot your old busi- 
ness of scouting in the swamp.” 

“ Kin I. forget it, major ?” demanded Sparkman, in tones which, 
though whispered, were full of emphasis, as he laid his ear to the 
earth to listen. 

“ James has finished supper, major — that’s his whistle to tell 
me so ; and I’ll jest step back to make it cl’ar to him how we’re 
to keep up the watch to-night.” 

“ Count me in your arrangements, Sparkman, as I am one of 
you for the night,” said the major. 

“ By no sort of means,” was the reply. “ The night must be 
shared between James and myself. Ef so be you wants to keep 
company with one or t’other of us, why, that’s another thing, and, 
of course, you can do as you please.” 

“ We’ll have no quarrel or. the subject, Joel,” said the officer, 
good-naturedly, as they returned to the camp together. 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


12 


CHAPTER II. 


The arrangements of the party were soon made. Speneei re- 
newed his offer at the fire to take his part in the watch ; and the 
Scotchman, Macnab, volunteered his services also; but the offer 
of the latter was another reason why that of the former should be 
declined. Sparkman was resolute to have everything his own 
way ; and while James Grayling went out upon his lonely rounds, 
he busied himself in cutting bushes and making a sort of tent for 
the use of his late commander. Mrs. Grayling and Lucy slept 
in a wagon. The Scotchman stretched himself with little effort 
before the fire ; while Joel Sparkman, wrapping himself up in his 
cloak, crouched under the wagon body, with liis back resting 
partly against one of the wheels. From time to time he rose and 
.hrust additional brands into the fire, looked up at the night, and 
round upon the little encampment, then sunk back to his perch 
and stole a few moments, at intervals, of uneasy sleep. The 
first two hours of the watch were over, and James Grayling was 
relieved. The youth, however, felt in no mood for sleep, and 
taking his seat by the fire, he drew from his pocket a little vol- 
ume of Easy Reading Lessons, and by the fitful flame of the re- 
sinous light-wood, he prepared, in this rude manner, to make up 
for the precious time which his youth had lost of its legitimate 
employments, in the stirring events of the preceding seven years 
consumed in war. He was surprised at this employment by his 
late commander, who, himself sleepless, now emerged from the 
bushes and joined Grayling at the fire. The youth had been ra- 
ther a favourite with Spencer. They had both been reared in the 
same neighbourhood, and the first military achievements of James 
had taken place under the eye, and had met the approbation of 
his officer. The difference of their ages was just such as to per- 
mit of the warm attachment of the lad without diminishing any 
of the reverence which should be felt by the inferior. Grayling 
was not more than seventeen, and Spencer was perhaps thirty 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.” 


13 

four — the very prime of manhood. They sat by the fire and 
talked of old times and told old stories with the hearty glee and 
good-nature of the young. Their mutual inquiries led to the rev- 
elation of their several objects in pursuing the present journey. 
Those of James Grayling were scarcely, indeed, to be considered 
his own. They were plans and purposes of his uncle, and it 
does not concern this narrative that we should know more of their 
nature than has already been revealed. But, whatever they were, 
they were as freely unfolded to his hearer as if the parties had 
been brothers, and Spencer was quite as frank in his revelations 
as his companion. He, too, was on his way to Charleston, from 
whence he was to take passage for England. 

“ I am rather in a hurry to reach town,” he said, “ as I learn 
that the Falmouth packet is preparing to sail for England in a 
few days, and I must go in her. ’ 

“ For England, major !” exclaimed the youth with unaffected 
astonishment. 

“ Yes, James, for England. But why — what astonishes you ?” 

“ Why, lord !” exclaimed the simple youth, “ if they only knew 
there, as I do. what a cutting and slashing you did use to make 
among their red coats, I reckon they’d hang you to the first 
hickory.” 

“ Oh, no ! scarcely,” said the other, with a smile. 

“ But I reckon you’ll change your name, major ?” continued 
the youth. 

“ No,” responded Spencer, “ if I did that, I should lose the ob- 
ject of my voyage. You must know, James, that an old rela- 
tive has left me a good 'deal of money in England, and I can only 
get it by proving that I am Lionel Spencer ; so you see I must 
carry my own name, whatever may be the risk.” 

“ WeK, major, you know best; but I do think if they could 
only have a guess of what you did among their sodgers at Hob- 
kirk’s and Cowpens, and Eutaw, and a dozen other places, they’d 
find some means of hanging you up, peace or no peace. But l 
don’t see what occasion you have to be going cl’ar away to Eng- 
land for money, when you’ve got a sight of your own already.” 

“ Not so much as you think for,” replied the major, giving an 
involuntary and uneasy glance at the Scotchman, who was seem 


14 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


ingly sound asleep on the opposite side of the fire. “ There is 
you know, but little money in the country at any time, and I must 
ge' what I want for my expenses when I reach Charleston. I 
have just enough to carry me there.” 

“Well, now, major, that’s mighty strange. I always thought 
that you was about the best off of" any man in our parts ; but if 
you’re strained so close, I’m thinking, major, — if so be you 
wouldn’t think me too presumptuous, — you’d better let me lend 
you a guinea or so that I’ve got to spare, and you can pay me 
back when you get the English money.” 

And the youth fumbled in his bosom for a little cotton wallet, 
which, with its limited contents, was displayed in another instant 
to the eyes of fhe officer. 

“ No, no, James,” said the other, putting back the generous 
tribute ; “ I have quite enough to carry me to Charleston, and 
when there I can easily get a supply from the merchants. But I 
thank you, my good fellow, for your offer. You are a good fel- 
low, James, and I will remember you.” 

It is needless to pursue the conversation farther. The nigh 
passed away without any alarms, and at dawn of the next da 
the whole party was engaged in making preparation for a start 
Mrs. Grayling was soon busy in getting breakfast in readiness. 
Major Spencer consented to remain with them until it was over ; 
but the Scotchman, after returning thanks very civilly for his ac- 
commodation of the night, at once resumed his journey. His 
course seemed, like their own, to lie below ; but he neither de- 
clared his route nor betrayed the least desire to know that of 
Spencer. The latter had no disposition to renew those inquiries 
from which the stranger seemed to shrink the night before, and 
he accordingly suffered him to depart with a quiet farewell, arid 
the utterance of a good-natured wish, in which all the parties 
joined, that he might have a pleasant journey. When he was 
fairly out of sight, Spencer said to Sparkman, 

“ Had I liked that fellow’s looks, nay, had I not positively dis- 
liked them, I should have gone with him. As it is, I will remain 
and share your breakfast.” 

The repast being over, all parties set forward ; but Spencer, 
after keeping along with them for a mile, took his leave also. 


GRAYLING; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


15 


The slow wagon-pace at which the family travelled, did not suit 
the high-spirited cavalier ; and it was necessary, as he assured 
them, that he should reach the city in two nights more. They 
parted with many regrets, as truly felt as they were warmly ex- 
pressed ; and James Grayling never felt the tedium ( of wagon 
travelling to be so severe as throughout the whole of that day 
when he separated from his favourite captain. But he was too 
stout-hearted a lad to make any complaint ; and his dissatisfac- 
tion only showed itself in his unwonted silence, and an over-anx- 
iety, which his steed seemed to feel in common with himself, to 
go rapidly ahead. Thus the day passed, and the wayfarers at 
its close had made a progress of some twenty miles from sun to 
sun. The same precautions marked their encampment this night 
as the last, and they rose in better spirits with the next morning 
the dawn of which was very bright and pleasant, and encourag- 
ing. A similar journey of twenty miles brought them to the place 
of bivouac as the sun went down ; and they prepared as usual 
for their securities and supper. They found themselves on the 
edge of a very dense forest of pines and scrubby oaks, a portion 
of which was swallowed up in a deep bay — so called in the dia- 
lect of the country — a swamp-bottom, the growth of which con- 
sisted *)f mingled cypresses and bay-trees, with tupola, gum, and 
dense thickets of low stunted shrubbery, cane grass, and dwarf 
willows, which filled up every interva 1 between the trees, and to 
the eye most effectually barred out ever} human intruder. This 
bay was chosen as the background for the camping party. Their 
wagon was wheeled into an area on a gently rising ground in 
front, under a pleasant shade of oaks and hickories, with a lonely 
pine rising loftily in occasional spots among them. Here the 
horses were taken out, and James Grayling prepared to kindle 
up a fire ; but, looking for his axe, it was unaccountably missing, 
and after a fruitless search of half an hour, the party came to 
the conclusion that it had been left on the spot where they had 
slept last night. This was a disaster, and, while they meditated 
in what manner to repair it, a negro boy appeared in sight, pass- 
ing along the road at their feet, and driving before him a small 
herd of cattle. From him they learned that they were only a 
mile or two from a farmstead where an axe might be borrowed ; 


16 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


and James, leaping on his horse, rode forward in the hope to obtain 
one. He found no difficulty in his quest ; and, having obtained 
it from the farmer, who was also a tavern-keeper, he casually 
asked if Major Spencer had not stayed with him the night before. 
He was somewhat surprised when told that he had not. 

“ There was one man stayed with me last night,” said the far* 
mer, “ but he didn’t call himself a major, and didn’t much look 
like one.” 

“ He rode a fine sorrel horse, — tall, bright colour, with white 
fore foot, didn’t he ?” asked James. 

“ No, that he didn’t ! He rode a powerful black, coal black, 
and not a bit of white about him.” 

“ That was the Scotchman ! But I wonder the major didn’t 
stop with you. He must have rode on. Isn’t there another 
house near you, below ?” 

“ Not one. There’s ne’er a house either above or below for a 
matter of fifteen miles. I’m the only man in all that distance 
that’s living on this road ; and I don’t think your friend could 
have gone below, as I should have seen him pass. I’ve beeji all 
day out there in that field before your eyes, clearing up the brush.” 


GRAYLING j OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


17 


CHAPTER III. 

Somewhat wondering that the major should have turned aside 
from the track, though without attaching to it any importance at 
that particular moment, James Grayling took up the borrowed 
axe and hurried back to the encampment, where the toil of cut- 
ting an extra supply of light- wood to meet the exigencies of the 
ensuing night, sufficiently exercised his mind as well as his body, 
to prevent him from meditating upon the seeming strangeness of 
the circumstance. But when he sat down to his supper over the 
fire that he had kindled, his fancies crowded thickly upon him, 
and he felt a confused doubt and suspicion that something was to 
happen, he knew not what. His conjectures and apprehensions 
were without form, though not altogether void ; and he felt a 
strange sickness and a sinking at the heart whioh was very un- 
usual with him. He had, in short, that lowness of spirits, that 
cloudy apprehensiveness of soul which takes the form of presenti- 
ment, and makes us look out for danger even when the skies are 
without a cloud, and the breeze is laden, equally and only, with 
^lm and music. His moodiness found no sympathy among his 
companions. Joel Sparkman was in the best of humours, and his 
mother was so cheery and happy, that when the thoughtful boy 
went off into the woods to watch, he could hear her at every mo- 
ment breaking out into little catches of a country ditty, which the 
gloomy events of the late war had not yet obliterated from her 
memory. 

“ It’s very strange !” soliloquized the youth, as he wandered 
along the edges of the dense bay or swamp-bottom, which we 
have passingly referred to, — “ it’s very strange what troubles me 
so ! I feel almost frightened, and yet I know I’m not to be fright- 
ened easily, and I don’t see anything in the woods to frighten me. 
It’s strange the major didn’t come along this road ! Maybe he 
took another higher up that leads by a different settlement. I 
wish I had asked the man at the house if there’s such another 

3 


J8 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


road. I reckon there must be, however, for where could the ma- 
jor have gone ?” 

The unphilosophical mind of James Grayling did not, in his 
farther meditations, carry him much beyond this starting point; 
and with its continual recurrence in soliloquy, he proceeded to 
traverse the margin of the bay, until he came to its junction with, 
and termination at, the high-road. The youth turned into this, 
and, involuntarily departing from it a moment after, soon found 
himself on the opposite side of the bay thicket. He wandered on 
and on, as he hi/nself described it, without any power to restrain 
himself. He knew not how far he went ; but, instead of main- 
taining his watch for two hours only, he was gone more than four; 
and, at length, a sense of weariness which overpowered him all 
of a sudden, caused him to seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
snatch a few moments of rest. He denied that he slept in this 
time. He insisted to the last moment of his life that sleep never 
visited his eyelids that night, — that he was conscious of fatigue 
and exhaustion, but not drowsiness, — and that this fatigue was so 
numbing as to«be painful, and effectually kept him from any sleep. 
While he sat thus beneath the tree, with a body weak and nerve- 
less, but a mind excited, he knew not how or why, to the most 
acute degree of expectation and attention, he heard his name 
called by the well-known voice of his friend, Major Spencer. 
The voice called him three times, — “ James Grayling ! — James ! 
— James Grayling before he could muster strength enough to 
answer. It was not courage he wanted,— -of that he was positive, 
for he felt sure, as he said, that something had gone wrong, and 
he was never more ready to fight in his life than at that moment, 
could he have commanded the physical capacity ; but his throat 
seemed dry to suffocation, — his lips effectually sealed up as if 
with wax, and when he did answer, the sounds seemed as fine 
and soft as the whisper of some child just born. 

“ Oh ! major, is it you V ’ 

Such, he thinks, were the very words he made use of in reply ; 
and the answer that he received was instantaneous, though the 
,oice came from some little distance in the bay, and his own 
voice he did not hear. He only knows what he meant to say. 
The answer was to this effect. 


GRAYLING ; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


id 


“It is, James ! — It is your own friend, Lionel Spencer, that 
speaks to you ; da not be alarmed when you see me ! I have 
been shockingly murdered !” 

James asserts that he tried to tell him that he would not be 
frightened, but his own voice was still a whisper, which lie him- 
self could scarcely hear. A moment after he had spoken, he 
heard something like a sudden breeze that rustled through the 
bay bushes at his feet, and his eyes were closed without his effort, 
and indeed in spite of himself. When he opened them, he saw 
Major Spencer standing at the edge of the bay, about twenty 
steps from him. Though he stood in the shade of a thicket, and 
there was no light in the heavens save that of the stars, he was 
yet enabled to distinguish perfectly, and with great ease, every 
lineament of his friend’s face. 

He looked very pale, and his garments were covered with 
blood ; and James said that he strove very much to rise from the 
place where be sat and approach him ; — “ for, in truth,” said the 
lad, “ so far from feeling any fear, I felt nothing but fury in my 
heart ; but I could not move a limb. My feet were fastened to 
the ground ; my hands to my sides; and I could only bend for- 
ward and gasp. I felt as if I should have died with vexation 
that I could not rise ; but a power which I could not resist, made 
me motionless, and almost speechless. I could only say, 1 Mur- 
dered !’ — and that one word I believe I must have repeated a 
dozen times. 

“ ‘ Yes, murdered ! — murdered by the Scotchman who slept 
with us at your fire the night before last. James, I look to you 
to have the murderer brought to justice ! James ! — do you hear 
me, James V 

“ These,” said James, “ I think were the very words, or near 
about the very words, that I heard ; and I tried to ask the major 

0 tell me how it was, and how I could do what he required ; but 

1 didn’t hear myself speak, though it would appear that he did, 
for almost immediately after I had tried to speak what I wished 
to say, he answered me just as if I had said it. He told me that 
(he Scotchman had waylaid, killed, and hidden him in that very 
bay; that his murderer had gone to Charleston ; and that if I 
made haste to town, I would find him in the Falmouth packet, 


20 


THE YtTGWAM AND THE CAblN. 


which was then lying in the harbour and ready to sail foi Eng- 
land. He farther said that everything depended on my making 
haste, — that I must reach town by to-morrow night if I wanted to 
be in season, and go right on board the vessel and charge the 
criminal with the deed. ‘ Do not be afraid,’ said he, when he 
had finished ; ‘ be afraid of nothing, James, for God will help and 
strengthen you to the end.’ When I heard all I burst into a flood 
of tears, and then I felt strong. I felt that I could talk, or fight, 
or do almost anything ; and I jumped up to my feet, and was just 
about to run down to where the major stood, but, with the firs' 
step which I made forward, he was gone. 1 stopped and looked 
all around me, but I could see nothing ; and the bay was just as 
black as midnight. But 1 went down to it, and tried to press in 
where I thought the major had been standing ; but I couldn’t get 
far, the brush and bay bushes were so close and thick. I was 
now bold and strong enough, and I called out, loud enough to be 
hjard half a mile. I didn’t exactly know what I called for, or 
what I wanted to learn, or I have forgotten. But I heard nothing 
more. Then I remembered the camp, and began to fear that 
something might have happened to mother and uncle, for I now 
felt, what I had not thought of before, that 1 had gone too fai 
round the bay to be of much assistance, or, indeed, to be in time foi 
any, had they been suddenly attacked. Besides, I could not think 
how long I had been gone; but it now seemed very late. The 
stars were shining their brightest, and the thin white clouds of 
morning were beginning to rise and run towards the west. Well, 
I bethought me of my course, — for I was a little bewildered and 
' doubtful where I was ; but, after a little thinking, I took the back 
track, and soon got a glimpse of the camp-fire, which was nearly 
burnt down ; and by this I reckoned I was gone considerably 
longer than my two hours. When I got back into the camp, I 
looked under the wagon, and found uncle in a sweet sleep, and 
though my heart was full almost to bursting with what I had 
heard, and the cruel sight I had seen, yet I wouldn’t waken him ; 
and I beat about and mended the fire, and watched, and wait- 
ed, until near daylight, when mother called to me out of the 
wagon, and asked who it was. This wakened my uncle, and 
then I up and told all that had happened, for if it had been to 


21 


GRAYLING ; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.” 

save my life, I couldn’t have kept it in much longer. But though 
mother said it was very strange, Uncle Sparkman considered that 
I had been only dreaming ; but he couldn’t persuade me of it ; 
and when I told him I intended to be off at daylight, just as the 
major had told me to do, and ride my best all the way to Charles- 
ton, he laughed, and said I was a fool. But I felt that I was no 
fool, and I was solemn certain that I hadn’t been dreaming ; and 
though both mother and he tried their hardest to make me put off 
going, yet I made up my mind to it, and they had to give up. 
For, wouldn’t I have been a pretty sort of a friend to the major, 
if, after what he told me, I could have stayed behind, and gone on 
only at a wagon-pace to look after the murderer ! I dont think 
if I had done so that I should ever have been able to look a white 
man in the face again. Soon as the peep of day, I was on horse- 
back. Mother was mighty sad, and begged me not to go, but 
Uncle Sparkman was mighty sulky, and kept calling me fool 
upon fool, until I was almost angry enough to forget that we were 
of blood kin. But all his talking did not stop me, and I reckon I 
was five miles on my way before he had his team in traces for a 
start. I rode as briskly as I could get on without hurting my 
nag. I had a smart ride of more than forty miles before me, and 
the road was very heavy. But it was a good two hours from 
sunset when I got into town, and the first question I asked of 
the people I met was, to show me where the ships were kept. 
When I got to the wharf they showed me the Falmouth packet, 
where she lay in the stream, ready to sail as soon as the wind 
should favour.” 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 




CHAPTER IV. 

James Grayling, with the same eager impatience which he has 
been suffered to describe in his own language, had already hired 
a boat to go on board the British packet, when he remembered 
that he had neglected all those means, legal and otherwise, by 
which alone his purpose might be properly effected. He did not 
know much about legal process, but he had common sense enough, 
the moment that he began to reflect on the subject, to know that 
some such process was necessary. This conviction produced an- 
other difficulty ; he knew not in which quarter to turn for coun- 
sel and assistance ; but here the boatman who saw his bewilder- 
ment, and knew by his dialect and dress that he was a back-coun- 
tryman, came to his relief, and from him he got directions where 
to find the merchants with whom his uncle, Sparkman, had done 
business in former years. To them he went, and without circum- 
locution, told the whole story of his ghostly visitation. Even as 
a dream, which these gentlemen at once conjectured it to be, the 
story of James Grayling was equally clear and curious ; and his 
intense warmth and the entire absorption, which the subject had 
effected, of his mind and soul, was such that they judged it not 
improper, at least to carry out the search of the vessel which he 
contemplated. It would certainly, they thought, be a curious co- 
incidence — believing James to be a veracious youth — if the Scotch- 
man should be found on board. But another test of his narrative 
was proposed by one of the firm. It so happened that the busi- 
ness agents of Major Spencer, who was well known in Charleston, 
kept their office but a few rods distant from their own ; and to 
them all parties at once proceeded. But here the story of James 
was encountered by a circumstance that made somewhat against 
it. These gentlemen produced a letter from Major Spencer, inti- 
mating the utter impossibility of his coming to town for the space 
of a month, and expressing his regret that he should be unable to 
avail himself of the opportunity of the foreign vessel, of whose ar- 


23 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.” 

rival in Charleston, and proposed time of departure, they had 
themselves advised him. They read the letter aloud to James 
and their brother merchants, and with difficulty suppressed their 
smiles at the gravity with which the former related and insisted 
upon the particulars of his vision. 

“ He has changed his mind,” returned the impetuous youth ; 

‘ he was on his way down, I tell you, — a hundred miles on his 
way, — when he camped with us. I know him well, I tell you, 
and talked with him myself half the night.” 

“ At least,” remarked the gentlemen who had gone with James, 
“ it can do no harm to look into the business. We can procure a 
warrant for searching the vessel after this man, Macnab; and 
should he be found on board the packet, it will be a sufficient cir- 
cumstance to justify the magistrates in detaining him, until we 
can ascertain where Major Spencer really is.” 

The measure was accordingly adopted, and it was nearly sun- 
set before the warrant was procured, and the proper officer in 
readiness. The impatience of a spirit so eager and so devoted as 
James Grayling, under these delays, may be imagined ; and 
when in the boat, and on his way to the packet where the crimi- 
nal was to be sought, his blood became so excited that it was with 
much ado he could be kept in his seat. His quick, eager action 
continually disturbed the trim of the boat, and one of his mercan- 
tile friends, who had accompanied him, with that interest in the 
affair which curiosity alone inspired, was under constant appre- 
hension lest he would plunge overboard in his impatient desire to 
shorten the space which lay between. The same impatience en- 
abled the youth, though never on shipboard before, to grasp the 
rope which had been flung at their approach, and to mount hei 
sides with catlike agility. Without waiting to declare himself or 
his purpose, he ran from one side of the deck to the other, greedily 
staring, to the surprise of officers, passengers, and seamen, in the 
faces of all of them, and surveying them with an almost offensive 
scrutiny. He turned away from the search with disappointment. 
There was no face like that of the suspected man among them. 
By this time, his friend, the merchant, with the sheriff’s officer, 
had entered the vessel, and were in conference with the* captain. 
Grayling drev nigh in time to hear the latter affirm that there 


24 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


was no man of the name of Macnab, as stated in the warn.nt 
among his passengers or crew. 

“ He is — he must be !” exclaimed the impetuous youth. “ The 
major never lied in his life, and couldn’t lie after he was dead 
Macnab is here — he is a Scotchman — ” 

The captain interrupted him — 

“ We have, young gentleman, several Scotchmen on board, ana 
one of them is named Macleod — ” 

“ Let me see him — which is he ?” demanded the youth. 

By this time, the passengers and a goodly portion of the crew 
were collected about the little party. The captain turned his 
eyes upon the group, and asked, 

“ Where is Mr. Macleod ?” 

“ He is gone below — he’s sick !” replied one of the passengers. 

“ That’s he ! That must be the man !” exclaimed the youth. 
“ I’ll lay my life that’s no other than Macnab. He’s only taken 
a false name.” 

It was now remembered by one of the passengers, and remarked, 
that Macleod had expressed himself as unwell, but a few moments 
before, and had gone below even while the boat was rapidly ap- 
proaching the vessel. At this statement, the captairi led the way 
into the cabin, closely followed by James Grayling and the rest. 

“ Mr. Macleod,” he said with a voice somewhat elevated, as 
he approached the berth of that person, “ you are wanted on deck 
for a few moments.” 

“ I am really too unwell, captain,” replied a feeble voice from 
behind the curtain of the berth. 

“ It will be necessary,” was the reply of the captain. “ There 
is a warrant from the authorities of the town, to look after a fugi- 
tive from justice.” 

Macleod had already begun a second speech declaring his fee- 
bleness, when the fearless youth, Grayling, bounded before the 
captain and tore away, with a single grasp of his hand, the cur- 
tain which concealed the suspected man from their sight. 

“ It is he !” was the instant exclamation of the youth, as he be- 
held him. “ It is he — Macnab, the Scotchman — the man that 
murdered Major Spencer I” 

Macnab, — for it was he, — was deadly pale. He trembled like 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


25 


an aspen. His eyes were dilated with more than mortal appre. 
hension, and his lips were perfectly livid. Still, he found strength 
to speak, and to deny the accusation. He knew nothing of the 
youth before him — nothing of Major Spencer — his name was 
Macleod, and he had never called himself by any other. He de- 
nied, but with great incoherence, everything which was urged 
against him. 

“ You must get up, Mr. Macleod,’’ said the captain ; “ the cir- 
cumstances are very much against you. You must go with the 
officer !” 

“ Will you give me up to my enemies ?” demanded the culprit. 
<! You are a countryman — a Briton. I have fought for the king, 
our master, against these rebels, and for this they seek my life. 
Do not deliver me into their bloody hands !” 

“ Liar !” exclaimed James Grayling — “ Didn’t you tell us at 
our own camp-fire that you were with us? that you were at 
Gates’s defeat, and Ninety-Six ?” 

“ But I didn’t tell you,” said the Scotchman, with a grin, 
“ which side I was on !” 

“ Ha ! remember that !” said the sherifF’s officer. “ He denied, 
just a moment ago, that he knew this young man at all ; now, he 
confesses that he did see and camp with him.” 

The Scotchman was aghast at the strong point which, in his 
inadvertence, he had made against himself ; and his efforts to ex- 
cuse himself, stammering and contradictory, served only to in- 
volve him more deeply in the meshes of his difficulty. Still he 
continued -his urgent appeals to the captain of the vessel, and his 
fellow-passengers, as citizens of the same country, subjects to the 
same monarch, to protect him from those who equally hated and 
would destroy them all. In order to move their national prejudi- 
ces in his behalf, he boasted of the immense injury which he had 
done, as a tory, to the rebel cause ; and still insisted that the 
murder was only a pretext of the youth before him, by which to 
gain possession of his person, and wreak upon him the revenge 
which his'own fierce performances during the war had naturally 
enough provoked. One or two of the passengers, indeed, joined 
with him in entreating the captain to set the accusers adrift and 
make sail at once ; but the stout Englishman who was in com- 


*26 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


maud, rejected instantly the unworthy counsel. Besides, he was 
better aware of the dangers which would follow any such rash 
proceeding. Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan’s Island, had been al 
ready refitted and prepared for an enemy ; and he was lying, at 
that moment, under the formidable range of grinning teeth, which 
would have opened upon him, at the first movement, from the jaws 
of Castle Pinckney. 

“ No, gentlemen,” said he, “ you mistake your man. God 
forbid that I should give shelter to a murderer, though he were 
from my own parish.” 

“ But I am no murderer,” said the Scotchman. 

“ You look cursedly like one, however,” was the reply of the 
captain. “ Sheriff, take your prisoner.” 

The base creature threw himself at the feet of the Englishman, 
and clung, with piteous entreaties, to his knees. The latter shook 
him off. and turned away in disgust. 

“ Steward,” he cried, “ bring up this man’s luggage.” 

He was obeyed. The luggage was brought up from the cabin 
and d' livered to the sheriffs officer, by whom it was examined in 
the presence of all, and an inventory made of its contents. It 
consisted of a small new trunk, which, it afterwards appeared, he 
had bought in Charleston, soon after his arrival. This contained 
a few changes of raiment, twenty-six guineas in money, a gold 
watch, not in repair, and the two pistols which he had shown while 
at Joel Sparkman’s camp fire ; but, with this difference, that the 
stock of one was broken off short just above the g»*asp, and the 
butt was entirely gone. It was not found among his chattels. A 
careful examination of the articles in his trunk did not result in 
anything calculated to strengthen the charge of his criminality ; 
but there was not a single person present who did not feel a** mor- 
ally certain of his guilt as if the jury had already declared the 
fact. That night he slept — if he 3lept at all — in the common jail 
of the city 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT 


27 


CHAPTER V. 

His accuser, the warm-hearted and resolute James Grayling 
Aid not sleep. The excitement, arising from mingling and con- 
tradictory emotions, — sorrow for his brave young commander’s 
fate, and the natural exultation of a generous spirit at the con- 
sciousness of having performed, with signal success, an arduous 
and painful task combined to drive all pleasant slumbers from his 
eyes ; and with the dawn he was again up and stirring, with his 
mind still full of the awful business in which he had been enga- 
ged. We do not care to pursue his course in the ordinary walks 
of the city, nor account for his employments during the few days 
which ensued, until, in consequence of a legal examination into 
the circumstances which anticipated the regular work of the ses- 
sions, the extreme excitement of the young accuser had been re- 
newed. Macnab or Macleod, — and it is possible that both names 
were fictitious, — as soon as he recovered from his first terrors, 
sought the aid of an attorney — one of those acute, small, chop- 
ping lawyers, to be found in almost every community, who are 
willing to serve with equal zeal the sinner and the saint, provi- 
ded that they can pay with equal liberality. The prisoner was 
brought before the court under habeas corpus, and several grounds 
submitted by his counsel with the view to obtaining his discharge. 
It became necessary to ascertain, among the first duties of the 
state, whether Major Spencer, the alleged victim, was really 
dead. Until it could be established that a man should be im- 
prisoned, tried, and punished for a crime, it was first necessary 
to show that a crime had been committed, and the attorney made 
himself exceedingly merry with the ghost story of young Gray- 
ling. In those days, however, the ancient Superstition was not 
so feeble as she has subsequently become. The venerable judge 
was one of those good men who had a decent respect for the faith 
and opinions of his ancestors ; and though he certainly would not 
have consented to the hanging of Macleod under the sort of testi- 


S8 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


mony which had been adduced, he yet saw enough, in all the c'r 
cumstances, to justify his present detention. Jn the meantime, 
efforts were to be made, to ascertain the whereabouts of Major Spen 
cer ; though, were he even missing, — so the counsel for Macleod 
contended, — -his death could be by no means assumed in conse- 
quence. To this the judge shook his head doubtfully. “ ’Fore 
God !” said he, “ I would not have you to be too sure of that.” 
He was an Irishman, and proceeded after the fashion of his coun- 
try. The reader will therefore bear with his bull. “ A man may 
properly be hung for murdering another, though the murdered 
man be not dead ; ay, before God, even though he be actually 
unhurt and uninjured, while the murderer is swinging by the 
\eck for the bloody deed !” 

The judge, — who it must be understood was a real existence, 
and who had no small reputation in his day in i,he south, — pro- 
ceeded to establish the correctness of his opinions by authorities 
and argument, with all of which, doubtlessly, the bar were ex 
ceedingly delighted ; but, to provide them in this place would 
only be to interfere with our own progress. James Grayling, 
however, was not satisfied to wait the slow processes which were 
suggested for coming at the truth. Even the wisdom of the judge 
was lost upon him, possibly, for the simple reason that he did not 
comprehend it. But the ridicule of the culprit’s lawyer stung 
him to the quick, and he muttered to himself, more than once, 
a determination “ to lick the life out of that impudent chap’s 
leather.” But this was not his only resolve. There was one 
which he proceeded to put into instant execution, and that was to 
seek the body of his murdered friend in the spot where he fancied 
it might be found — namely, the dark and dismal bay where the 
spectre had made its appearance to his eyes. 

The suggestion was approved — though he did not need this to 
prompt his resolution — by his mother and uncle, Sparkman. The 
latter determined to be his companion, and he was farther accom- 
panied by the sheriff’s officer who had arrested the suspected fel- 
on. Before daylight, on the morning after the examination before 
the judge had taken place, and when Macleod had been remand- 
ed to prison, James Grayling started on his journey. His fiery 
^eftl received additional force at every added moment of delay, apd 


GRAYLING ; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT.’' 


29 


his eager spurring brought him at an early hour aAer noon, to the 
neighbourhood of the spot through which his search was to be 
made. When his companions and himself drew nigh, they were 
all at a loss in which direction first to proceed. The bay was 
one of those massed forests, whose wall of thorns, vines, and close 
tenacious shrubs, seemed to defy invasion. To the eye of the 
townsman it was so forbidding that he pronounced it absolutely 
impenetrable. But James was not to be baffled. He led them 
round it, taking the very course which he had pursued the night 
when the revelation was made him ; he showed them the very 
tree at whose foot he had sunk when the supernatural torpor — as 
he himself esteemed it — began to fall upon him ; he then pointed 
out the spot, some twenty steps distant, at which the spectre made 
his appearance. To this spot they then proceeded in a body, and 
essayed an entrance, but were so discouraged by the difficulties 
at the outset that all, James not excepted, concluded that neither- 
the murderer nor his victim could possibly have found entrance 
there. 

But, lo ! a marvel ! Such it seemed, at the first blush, to all the 
party. While they stood confounded and indecisive, undetermin- 
ed in which way to move, a sudden flight of wings was heard, even 
from the centre of the bay, at a little distance above the spot 
where they had striven for entrance. They looked up, and be*^ 
held about fifty buzzards — those notorious domestic vultures ol 
.he south-.— ascending from the interior of the bay, and perching 
along upon the branches of the loftier trees by which it was over- 
hung. Even were the character of these birds less known, the 
particular business in which they had just then been engaged, was 
betrayed by huge gobbets of flesh which some of them had borne 
aloft in their flight, and still continued to rend with beak and bill, 
as they tottered upon the branches where they stood. A piercing 
scream issued from the lips of James Grayling as lie beheld this 
sight, and strove to scare the offensive birds from their repast. 

“ The poor major ! the poor major !” was the involuntary and 
agonized exclamation of the youth. “ Did I ever think he 
would come to this !” 

The search, thus guided and encouiaged, was pressed with re- 
newed diligence and spirit; and, at length, an opening was found 


30 


TIIE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


through which it was evident that a body of considerable size, had 
but recently gone. The branches were broken from the small 
shrub trees, and the undergrowth trodden into the earth. They 
followed this path, and, as is the case commonly with waste tracts 
of this description, the density of the growth diminished sensibly 
at every step they took, till they reached a little pond, which, 
though circumscribed in area, and full of cypresses, yet proved to 
be singularly deep. Indeed, it was an alligator-hole, where, in all 
probability, a numerous tribe of these reptiles had their dwelling. 
Here, on the edge of the pond, they discovered the object which 
had drawn the keen-sighted vultures to their feast, in the body of 
a horse, which James Grayling at once identified as that of Ma- 
jor Spencer. The carcass of the animal was already very much torn 
and lacerated. The eyes were plucked out, and the animal com- 
pletely disembowelled. Yet, on examination, it was not difficult 
to discover the manner of his death. This had been effected by 
fire-arms. Two bullets had passed through his skull, just above 
the eyes, either of which must have been fatal. The murderer 
had led the horse to the spot, and committed the cruel deed where 
his body was found. The search was now continued for that of 
the owner, but for some time it proved ineffectual. At length, the 
keen eyes of James Grayling detected, amidst a heap of moss and 
green sedge that rested beside an overthrown tree, whose branch- 
es jutted into the pond, a whitish, but discoloured object, that did 
not seem native to the place. Bestriding the fallen tree, he was 
enabled to reach this object, which-, with a burst of grief, he an- 
nounced to the distant party was the hand and arm of his unfor- 
tunate friend, the wristband of the shirt being the conspicuous 
object which had first caught his eve. Grasping this, he drew 
the corse, which had been thrust beneath the branches of the tree, 
to the surface ; and, with the assistance of his uncle, it was final- 
ly brought to the dryland. Here it underwent a careful exami- 
nation. The head was very much disfigured ; the skull was 
fractured in several places by repeated blows of some hard instru- 
ment, inflicted chiefly from behind. A closer inspection revealed 
a bullet-hole in the abdomen, the first wound, in all probability, 
which the unfortunate gentleman received, and by which he was, 
r »erhaps, tumbled from his horse. The blows on the head would 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.’ 


31 


seem to have been unnecessary, unless the murderer — whose pro- 
ceedings appeared to have been singularly deliberate, — was resolv- 
ed upon making “ assurance doubly sure.” But, as if the watch- 
ful Providence had meant that nothing should be left doubtful 
wliich might tend to the complete conviction of the criminal, the 
constable stumbled upon the butt of the broken pistol which had 
been found in Macleod’s trunk. This he picked up on the edge 
of the pond in which the corse had been discovered, and while 
James Grayling and his uncle, Sparkman, were engaged in draw- 
ing it from the water. The place where the fragment was dis- 
covered at once denoted the pistol as the instrument by which the 
final blows were inflicted. “ ’Fore God,” said the judge to the 
criminal, as these proofs were submitted on the trial, “you may 
be a very innocent man after all, as, by my faith, I do think there 
have been many murderers before you ; but you ought, never- 
theless, to be hung as an example to all other persons who sutler 
such strong proofs of guilt to follow their innocent misdoings. 
Gentlemen of the jury, if this person, Macleod or Macnab, didn’t 
murder Major Spencer, either you or 1 did ; and you must now 
decide which of us it is! I say, gentlemen of the jury, either 
you, or I, or the prisoner at the bar, murdered this man ; and if 
you have any doubts which of us it was, it is but justice and mer- 
cy that you should give the prisoner the benefit of your doubts ; and' 
so find your verdict. But, before God, should you find him not 
guilty, Mr. Attorney there can scarcely do anything wiser than 
to put us all upon trial for the deed.” 

The jury, it may be scarcely necessary to add, perhaps under 
certain becoming fears of an alternative such as his honour had 
suggested, brought in a verdict of “ Guilty,” without leaving the 
panel ; and Macnab,* alias Macleod, was hung at White Point, 
Charleston, somewhere about the year 178 — . 

“ And here,” said my grandmother, devoutly, “ you behold a 
proof of God’s watchfulness to see that murder should not be hid- 
den, and that the murderer, should not escape. You see that he 
sent the spirit of the murdered man — since, by no other mode 
could the truth have been revealed — to declare the crime, and to 
discover the criminal. But for that ghost, Macnab would have 
got o(f to Scotland, and probably have been living to this very 


)2 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


day on the money that he took from the person of the poor ma. 
jor.” 

As the old lady finished the ghost story, which, by the way, 
she had been tempted to relate for the fiftieth time in order to 
combat my father’s ridicule of such superstitions, the latter took 
up the thread of the narrative. 

“ Now, my son,” said he, “ as you have heard all that your 
grandmother has to say on this subject, I will proceed to show 
you what you have to believe, and what not. It - is true that 
Macnab murdered Spencer in the manner related ; that James 
Grayling made the dicovery and prosecuted the pursuit ; found 
the body and brought the felon to justice ; that Macnab suffered 
death, and confessed the crime ; alleging that he was moved to 
do so, as well because of the money that he suspected Spencer to 
have in his possession, as because of the hate which he felt for a 
man who had been particularly bold and active in cutting up a 
party of Scotch loyalists to which he belonged, on the borders of 
North Carolina. But the appearance of the spectre was nothing 
more than the work of a quick imagination, added to a shrewd 
and correct judgment. James Grayling saw no ghost, in fact, 
but such as was in his own mind ; and, though the instance was 
one of a most remarkable character, one of singular combination, 
and well depending circumstances, still, I think it is to be ac- 
counted for by natural and very simple laws.” 

The old lady was indignant. 

“ And how could he see the ghost just on the edge of the same 
bay where the murder had been conmitted, and where the body 
of the murdered man even then was lying ?” 

My father did not directly answer the demand, but proceeded 
thus : — 

“James Grayling, as we know, mother, was a very ardent, 
impetuous, sagacious man. He had the sanguine, the race-horse 
temperament. He was generous, always prompt and ready, and 
one who never went backward. What he did, he did quic’klv, 
boldly, and thoroughly ! He never shrank from trouble of any 
kind : nay, he rejoiced in the constant encounter with difficulty 
and trial ; and his was the temper which commands and enthrals 
mankind. He felt deeply and intensely whatever occupied his 


GRAYLING; OR, “MURDER WILL OUT.” 


33 


mind, and when he parted from his friend he brooded over little 
else than their past communion and the great distance by which 
they were to be separated. The dull travelling wagon-gait at 
which he himself was compelled to go, was a source of annoy- 
ance to him ; and he became sullen, all the day, after the depart- 
ure of his friend. When, on the evening of the next day, he 
came to the house where it was natural to expect that Major 
Spencer would have slept the night before, and he learned the fac. 
that no one stopped thore but the Scotchman, Macnab, we see 
that he was struck with the circumstance. He mutters it over 
to himself, “ Strange, where the major could have gone !” His 
mind then naturally reverts to- the character of the Scotchman ; 
to the opinions and suspicions which had been already expressed 
of him by his uncle, and felt by himself. They had all, previous- 
ly, come to t.he full conviction that Macnab was, and had always 
been, a tory, in spite of his protestations. His mind next, and 
very naturally, reverted to the insecurity of the highways ; the 
general dangers of travelling at that period ; the frequency of 
crime, and the number of desperate men who were everywhere 
to be met with. The very employment in which he was then 
engaged, in scouting the woods for the protection of the camp, 
was calculated to bring such reflections to his mind. If these 
precautions were considered necessary for the safety of persons 
so poor, so wanting in those possessions which might prompt cu- 
pidity to crime, how much more necessary were precautions in 
the case of a wealthy gentleman like Major Spencer ! He then 
remembered the conversation with the major at the camp-fire, 
when they fancied that the Scotchman was sleeping. How nat- 
ural to think that he was all the while awake ; and, if 
awake, he must have neard him speak of the wealth of his com- 
panion. True, the major, with more prudence than himself, de- 
nied that he had any money about him, more than would bear his 
expenses to the city ; but such an assurance was natural enough 
to the lips of a traveller who knew the dangers of the country. 
That the man, Macnab, was not a person to be trusted, was the 
equal impression of Joel Sparkman and his nephew from the first. 
The probabilities were strong that he would rob and perhaps 
murder, if he might hope to do so with impunity ; and as th? 

4 


34 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


youth made the circuit of the bay in the darkness and solemn 
stillness of the night, its gloomy depths and mournful shadows, 
naturally gave rise to such reflections as would be equally ac- 
tive- in the mind of a youth, and of one somewhat familiar with 
the arts and usages of strife. He would see that the spot 
was just the one in which a practised partisan would delight to 
set an ambush for an unwary foe. There ran the public road, 
with a little sweep, around two-thirds of the extent of its dense 
and impenetrable thickets. The ambush could lie concealed, 
and at ten steps command the bosom of its victim. Here, then, 
you perceive that the mind of James Grayling, stimulated by an 
active and sagacious judgment, had by gradual and reasonable 
stages come to these conclusions : that Major Spencer was an ob- 
ject to tempt a robber ; that the country was full of robbers; 
that Macnab was one of them ; that this was the very spot in 
which a deed of blood could be most easily committed, and 
most easily concealed ; and, one important fact, that gave strength 
and coherence to the whole, that Major Spencer had not reached 
a well-known point of destination, while Macnab had. 

“ With these thoughts, thus closely linked together, the youth 
forgets the limits of his watch and his circuit. This fact, alone, 
proves how active his imagination had become. It leads him for- 
ward, brooding more and more on the subject, until, in the very 
exhaustion of his body, he sinks down beneath a tree. He sinks 
down and falls asleep ; and in his sleep, whaj; before was plaus- 
ible conjecture, becomes fact, and the creative properties of hi- 
imagination give form and vitality to all his fancies. These forms 
are bold, broad, and deeply coloured, in due proportion with the 
degree of force which they receive from probability. Here, he 
sees the image of his friend ; but, you will remark — and this 
should almost conclusively satisfy any mind that all that he sees 
is the work of his imagination, — that, though Spencer tells him 
that he is murdered, and by Macnab, he does not tell him how, 
in v kat manner, or with what weapons. Though he sees him 
pale and ghostlike, he does not see, nor can he say, where his 
wounds are ! He sees his pale features distinctly, and Ins gar- 
ments are bloody. Now, had he seen the spectre in the true ap- 
pearances of death, as he was subsequently found, he would not 


GRAYLING; OR, “ MURDER WILL OUT/ 


36 


have been able to discern his features, which were battered, ac- 
cording to his own account, almost out of all shape of humanity, 
arid covered with mud; while his clothes would have streamed 
with mud and water, rather than with blood .’ 5 

“Ah!” exclaimed the old lady, my grandmother, “ it’s' hard 
to make you believe anything that you don’t see ; you are like 
Saint Thomas in the Scriptures ; but how do you propose to ac- 
count for his knowing t iat the Scotchman was on board the Fal- 
mouth packet ? Answer to that !” * 

“ That is not a more difficult matter than any of the rest. 
You forget that in the dialogue which took place between James 
and Major Spencer at the camp, the latter told him that he was 
about to take passage for Europe in the Falmouth packet, which 
then lay in Charleston harbour, and was about to sail. Macnab 
heard all that.” 

“ True enough, and likely enough,” returned the old lady ; 
“ but, though you show that it was Major Spencer’s intention to 
go to Europe in the Falmouth packet, that will not show that it 
was also the intention of the murderer.” 

“Yet what more probable, and how natural for James Gray- 
ling to imagine such a thing ! In the first place he knew that 
Macnab was a Briton ; he felt convinced that he was a tory ; and 
the inference was immediate, that such a person would scarcely 
have remained long in a country where such characters laboured 
under so much odium, disfranchisement, and constant danger 
from popular tumults. The fact that Macnab was compelled to 
disguise his true sentiments, and affect those of the people against 
whom he fought so vindictively, shows what was his sense of the 
danger which he incurred. Now, it is not unlikely that Macnab 
was quite as well aware that the Falmouth packet was in Charles- 
ton. and about to sail, as Major Spencer. No doubt he was pur- 
suing the same journey, with the same object, and had he not 
murdered Spencer, they would, very likely, have been fellow- 
passengers together to Europe. But, whether he knew the fact 
before or not, he probably heard it staled by Spencer while he 
seemed to be sleeping ; and, even supposing that lie did not then 
know, it was enpugh that he found this to be the fact on reaching 
.he city. It was an after-thought to fly to Europe with his ill 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


3f 

gotten spoils ; and whatever may have appeared a politic course 
to the criminal, would be a probable conjecture in the mind of 
him by whom he was suspected. The whole story is one of strong 
probabilities which happened to be verified ; and if proving any- 
thing, proves only that which we know — that James Grayling was 
a man of remarkably sagacious judgment, and quick, daring im- 
agination. This quality of imagination, by the way, when pos- 
sessed very strongly in connexion with shrewd common sense 
and well-balanced general faculties, makes that particular kind 
of intellect which, because of its promptness and powers of crea- 
tion and combination, we call genius. It is genius only which 
can make ghosts, and James Grayling was a genius. He never, 
my son, saw any other ghosts than those of his own making l” 

I heard my father with great patience to the end, though he 
seemed very tedious. He had taken a great deal of pains to de- 
stroy one of my greatest sources of pleasure. I need not add 
that I continued to believe in the ghost, and, with my grandmoth- 
er, to reject the philosophy. It was more easy to believe the one 
than to comprehend the other. 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


r 


THE TWO CAMPS. 

A LEGEND OF THE OLD NORTH STATE 


“ These, the forest born 
And forest nurtured — a bold, hardy race, 
Fearless and frank, unfettered, with big souls 
In hour of danger.” 


CHAPTER I. 

It is frequently the case, in the experience of the professional 
novelist or tale-writer, that his neighbour comes in to his assist- 
ance when he least seeks, and, perhaps, least desires any succour. 
The worthy person, man or woman, however, — probably some ex 
cellent octogenarian whose claims to be heard are based chiefly up- 
on the fact that he himself no longer possesses the faculty of hear- 
ing, — has some famous incident, some wonderful fact, of which he 
has been the eye-witness, or of which he has heard from his great- 
grandmother, which he fancies is the very thing to be woven into 
song or story. Such is the strong possession which the matter 
takes of his brain, that, if the novelist whom he seeks to benefit 
does not live within trumpet-distance, he gives him the narrative by 
means of post, some three sheets of stiff foolscap, for which the 
hapless tale-writer, whose works are selling in cheap editions at 
twelve or twenty cents, pays a sum of one dollar sixty-two postage. 
Now, it so happens, to increase the evil, that, in ninety-nine cases 
in the hundred, the fact thus laboriously stated is not worth a 
straw — consisting of some simple deed of violence, some mere 
murder, a downright blow with gun-butt or cudgel over the skull, 
or a hidden thrust, three inches deep, with dirk or bowie knife, 
into the abdomen, or at random among the lower ribs. The man 

4 


38 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


dies and the murderer gets off to Texas, or is prematurely caught 
and stops by the way — and still stops by the way ! The thing is 
fact, no doubt. The narrator saw it himself, or his brother saw 
it. or — more solemn, if not more certain testimony still — his grand- 
mother saw it, long before he had eyes to see at all. The cir- 
cumstance is attested by a cloud of witnesses — a truth solemnly 
sworn to — and yet, for the purposes of the tale-writer, of no man- 
ner of value. This assertion may somewhat conflict with the 
received opinions of many, who, accustomed to find deeds of vio- 
lence recorded in almost every «work of fiction, from the time of 
Homer to the present day, have rushed to the conclusion that this 
is all, and overlook that labour of the artist, by which an ordi- 
nary event is made to assume the character of novelty ; in other 
words, to become an extraordinary event. The least difficult 
thing in the world, on the part of the writer of fiction, is to find 
the assassin and the bludgeon ; the art is to make them appear in 
the right place, strike at the right time, and so adapt one fact to 
another, as to create mystery, awaken curiosity, inspire doubt as 
to the result, and bring about the catastrophe, by processes which 
shall be equally natural and unexpected. All that class of sa- 
gacious ■ persons, therefore, who fancy they have found a mare’ 
nest, when, in fact, they are only gazing at a goose’s, are respect- 
fully counselled that no fact — no tradition — is of any importance to 
the artist, unless it embodies certain peculiar characteristics of its 
own, or unless' it illustrates some history about which curiosity 
has already been awakened. A mere brutality, in which John 
beats and bruises Ben, and Ben in turn shoots John, putting ele- 
ven slugs, or thereabouts, between his collar-bone and vertebrae — 
or, maybe, stabs him under his left pap, or any where you please, 
is just as easily conceived by the novelist, without the help of 
history. Nay, for that matter, he would perhaps rather not have 
any precise facts in his way, in such cases, as then he will be 
ible to regard the picturesque in the choice of his weapon, and to 
put the wounds in such parts of the body, as will better bear the 
examination of all persons. 1 deem it. right to throw outf this hint, 
just at this moment, as well for the benefit of my order as for 
my own protection. The times are hard, and the post-office re- 
quires all its dues in hard money. Literary men are not pro- 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


39 


verbially prepared at all seasons for any unnecessary outlay — 
and to be required to make advances for commodities of which 
they have on hand, at all times, the greatest abundance, is an in- 
justice which, it is to be hoped, that this little intimation will 
somewhat lessen. We take for granted, therefore, that our pro 
fessional brethren will concur with us in saying to the public 
that we are all sufficiently provided with “ disastrous chances ’ 
for some time to come — that our “ moving accidents by flood and 
field 55 are particularly numerous, and of “ hair-breadth ’scapes” 
we have enough to last a century. Murders, and such matters, 
as they are among the most ordinary events of the day, are de- 
cidedly vulgar; and, for mere cudgelling and ‘bruises, the taste 
of the belles-lettres reader, rendered delicate by the monthly 
magazines, has voted them equally gross and unnatural. 

But, if the character of the materials usually tendered to the 
novelist by the incident-mongers, is thus ordinarily worthless as 
we describe it, we sometimes are fortunate in finding an individ- 
ual, here and there, in the deep forests, — a sort of recluse, hale 
and lusty, but whiteffieaded, — who unfolds from his own budget 
of experience a rare chronicle, on which we delight to linger. 
Such an one breathes life into his deeds. We see them as we 
listen to his words. In lieu of the dead body of the fact, we have 
its living spirit — subtle, active, breathing and burning, and fresh 
in all the provocations and associations '.of life. Of this sort 
was the admirable characteristic narrative of Horse-Shoe Robin- 
son, which we owe to Kennedy, and for which he was indebted 
to the venerable . Jiero of the story. When we say that the sub- 
ject of the sketch which follows was drawn from not dissimilar 
sources, we must beg our readers not to understand us as inviting 
any reference to- that able and national story— -with which it 
is by no means our policy or wish to invite or provoke compari- 
son. 


40 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER II. 

There are probably some old persons still living upon the up 
pei dividing line between North and South Carolina, who still re 
member the form and features of the venerable Daniel Nelson 
The old man was still living so late as 1817. At that period he 
removed to Mississippi, where, we believe, he died in less than 
three months after his change of residence. An old tree does not 
bear transplanting easily, and does not long survive it. Daniel 
Nelson came from Virginia when a youth. He was one of the 
first who settled on the southern borders of North Carolina, or, 
at least in that neighbourhood where he afterwards passed the 
greatest portion of his days. 

At that time the country was not only a forest, but one thickly 
settled with Indians. It constituted the favourite hunting-grounds 
for several of their tribes. But this circumstance did not discour- 
age young Nelson. He was then a stalwart youth, broad-chested, 
tall, with a fiery eye, and an almost equally fiery soul — certainly 
with a very fearless one. His companions, who were few in 
number, were like himself. The spirit of old Daniel Boone was 
a more common one than is supposed. Adventure gladdened and 
excited their hearts, — danger only seemed to provoke their deter- 
mination, — and mere hardship was something which their frames 
appeared to covet. It was as refreshing to them as drink. Hav- 
ing seen the country, and struck down some of its game, — tasted 
of its bear-meat and buffalo, its deer and turkey, — all, at tha 
time, in the greatest abundance, — they returned for the one thing 
most needful to a brave forester in a new country, — a good, brisk, 
fearless wife, who, like the damsel in Scripture, would go whither- 
soever went the husband to whom her affections were surrendered. 
They had no fear, these bold young hunters, tQ make a home and 
rear an infant family in regions so remote from the secure walks 
of civilization. They had met and made an acquaintance and a 
sort of friendship with the Indians, and, in the superior vigour of* 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


41 


their own frames, their greate. courage, and better weapons, they 
perhaps had come to form a too contemptuous estimate of the sav- 
age. But they were not beguiled by him into too much confi- 
dence. Their log houses were so constructed as to be fortresses 
upon occasion, and they lived not so far removed from one an- 
other, but that the leaguer of one would be sure, in twenty-four 
hours, to bring the others to his assistance. Besides, with a stock 
of bear-meat and venison always on hand, sufficient for a winter, 
either of these fortresses might, upon common calculations, be 
maintained for several weeks against any single band of the In- 
dians, in the small numbers in which they were wont to range to- 
gether in those neighbourhoods. In this way these bold pioneers 
took possession of the soil, and paved the way for still mightier 
generations. Though wandering, and somewhat avers*e to the te- 
dious labours of the farm, they were still not wholly unmindful 
of its duties ; and their open lands grew larger every season, and 
increasing comforts annually spoke for the increasing civilization 
of the settlers. Corn was in plenty in proportion to the bear- 
meat, and the squatters almost grew indifferent to those first ap- 
prehensions, which had made them watch the approaches of the 
most friendly Indian as if he had been an enemy. At the end of 
five years, in which they had suffered no hurt and but little an- 
noyance of any sort from their wild neighbours, it would seem as 
if this confidence in the security of their situation was not without 
sufficient justification. 

But just then, circumstances seemed to threaten an interrup- 
tion of this goodly state of things. The Indians were becoming 
discontented. Other tribes, more frequently in contact with the 
iarger settlements of the whites, — wronged by them in trade, or 
demoralized by drink, — complained of their sufferings and inju- 
ries, or, as is more probable, were greedy to obtain their treasures, 
in bulk, which they were permitted to see, but denied to enjoy, or 
only in limited quantity. Their appetites and complaints were 
transmitted, by inevitable sympathies, to their brethren of the in- 
terior, and our worthy settlers upon the Haw, were rendered anx 
ious at* signs which warned them of a change in the peaceful re 
lations which had hitherto existed in all the intercourse between 
the differing races. We need not dwell upon or describe these 


42 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


Bigns, with which, from frequent narratives of like character, out 
people are already sufficiently familiar. They were easily un- 
derstood by our little colony, and by none more quickly than 
Daniel Nelson. They rendered him anxious, it is true, but not 
apprehensive ; and, like a good husband, while he strove not to 
frighten his wife by what he said, he deemed it necessary to pre. 
pare her mind for the worst that might occur. This task over, 
he felt somewhat relieved, though, when he took his little girl, 
now five years old, upon his knee that evening, and looked upon 
his infant boy in the lap of his mother, he felt his anxieties very 
much increase ; and that very night he resumed a practice which 
he had latterly abandoned, but which had been adopted as a 
measure of strict precaution, from the very first establishment of 
their little 'settlement. As soon as supper was over, he resumed 
his rifle, thrust his couteau de chasse into his belt, and, taking his 
horn about his neck, and calling up his trusty dog, Clinch, he 
proceeded to scour the woods immediately around his habitation. 
This task, performed with the stealthy caution of the hunter, oc- 
cupied some time, and, as the night was clear, a bright starlight, 
the weather moderate, and his own mood restless, he determined 
to strike through the forest to the settlement of Jacob Ransom, 
about four miles off, in order to prompt him, and, through him, 
others of the neighbourhood, to the continued exercise of a caution 
which he now thought necessary. The rest of this night’s adven- 
ture we propose to let him tell in his own words, as he has been 
heard to relate it a thousand times in his old age, at a period of 
life when, with one foot in his grave, to suppose him guilty of 
falsehood, or of telling that which he did not himself fervently be- 
lieve, would be, among all those who knew him, to suppose the 
most impossible and extravagant thing in the world. 


THE TWO CAMPS, 


43 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Well, my friends,” said the veteran, then seventy, drawing 
nis figure up to its fullest height, and extending his right arm, 
while his left still grasped the muzzle of his ancient rifle, which 
he swayed from side to side, the butt resting on the floor — “ Well, 
my friends, seeing that the night was cl’ar, and there was no 
wind, and feeling as how I didn’t want for sleep, I called to Clinch 
and took the path for Jake Ransom’s. I knew that Jake was a 
sleepy sort of chap, and if the redskins caught any body napping, 
he’d, most likely, be the man. But I confess, ’twarn’t so much 
for his sake, as for the sake of all, — of my own as well as tne 
rest ; — for, when I thought how soon, if we warn’t all together in 
the business, I might see, without being able to put in, the long 
yellow hair of Betsy and the babies twirling on the thumbs of 
some painted devil of the tribe, — I can’t tell you how I felt, but 
it warn’t like a human, though I shivered mightily like one, — 
’twas wolfish, as if the hair was turned in and rubbing agin the 
very heart within me. I said my prayers, where I stood, looking 
up at the stars, and thinking that, after all, all was in the hands 
and the marcy of God. This sort o’ thinking quieted me, and I 
went ahead pretty free, for I knew the track jest as well by night 
as by day, though I didn’t go so quick, for f was all the time on 
the look-out for the enemy. Now, after we reached a place in 
the woods where there was a gully and a mighty bad crossing, 
there were two roads to get to Jake’s — one by the hollows, and 
one jest across the hills. I don’t know why, but I didn’t give 
myself time to think, and struck right across the hill, though that 
was rather the longest way. 

“ Howsomedever, on I went, and Clinch pretty close behind me.* 
The dog was a good dog, with a mighty keen nose to hunt, but 
jest then he didn’t seem to have the notion for it. The hill was 
a sizeable one, a good stretch to foot, and I began to remember, 
after awhile, that I had been in the woods from blessed lawn; 


44 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


and that made me see how it was with poor Clinch, and why he 
didn’t go for’ad ; but I was more than half way, and wasn’t 
gume to turn back till I had said my say to Jake. Well, when 1 
got to the top of the hill, I stopped, and rubbed my eyes. I had 
cause to rub ’em, for what should I see at a distance but a great 
fire. At first I was afeard lest it was Jake’s house, but I consid- 
ered, the next moment, that he lived to the left, and this fire was 
cl’ar to the right, and it did seem to me as if ’twas more near to 
my own. Here was something to scare a body. But I couldn’t 
stay there looking, and it warn’t now a time to go to Jake’s ; so 
I turned off, and, though Clinch was mighty onwilling, 1 bolted on 
the road to the fire. I say road, but there was no road ; but the 
trees warn’t over-thick, and the land was too poor for undergrowth ; 
so we got on pretty well, considering. But, what with the tire 1 
had had, and the scare I felt, it seemed as if I didn’t get for’ad a 
bit. There was the fire still burning as bright and almost as far 
off as ever. When I saw this I stopt and looked at Clinch, and 
he stopped and looked at me, but neither of us had any thing 
to say. Well, after a moment’s thinking, it seemed as if I 
shouldn’t be much of a man to give up when I had got so far, so 
I pushed on. We crossed more than one little hill, then down 
and through the hollow, and then up the hill again. At last we 
got upon a small mountain the Indians called Nolleehatchie, and 
then it seemed as if the fire had come to a stop, for it was now 
burning bright, on a little hill below me, and not two hundred 
yards in front. It was a regular camp fire, pretty big, and there 
was more than a dozen Indians sitting round it. 4 Well,’ says I 
to myself, 4 it’s come upon us mighty sudden, and what’s to be 
done ? Not a soul in the settlement knows it but myself, and 
nobody’s on the watch. They’ll be sculped, every human of 
them, in their very beds, or, moutbe, waken up in the blaze, to be 
shot with arrows as they run.’ I was in a cold sweat to think of 
it. I didn’t know what to think and what to do. I looked round 
to Clinch, and the strangest thing of all was to see him sitting 
quiet on his haunches, looking at me, and at the stars, and not at 
the fire jest before him. Now, Clinch was a famous fine hunting 
dog, and jest as good on an Indian trail as any other. He know’d 
my ways, and what I wanted, and would give tongue, or keep it 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


45 


still, jest as I axed him. It was sensible enough, jest then, that 
he shouldn’t bark, but, dang it ! — he didn’t even seem to see. 
Now, there warn’t a dog in all the settlement so quick and keen 
!o show sense as Clinch, even when he didn’t say a word ; — and 
to see him looking as if he didn’t know and didn’t care what was 
a-going on, with his eyes sot in his head and glazed over with 
sleep, was, as I may say, very onnatural, jest at that time, in a 
dog of any onderstanding. So I looked at him, half angry, and 
when he saw me looking at him, he jest stretched himself off, put 
his nose on his legs, and went to sleep in ’arnest. I had half a 
mind to lay my knife-handle over his head, but I considered bet- 
ter of it, and though it did seem the strangest thing in the world 
that he shouldn’t even try to get to the fire, for warm sake, yet I 
recollected that dog natur’, like human natur’, can’t stand every 
thing, and he hadn’t such good reason as I had, to know that the 
Indians were no longer friendly to us. Well, there I stood, a 
pretty considerable chance, looking, and wondering, and onbe- 
knowing what to do. I was mighty beflustered. But at last I felt 
ashamed to be so oncertain, and then again it was a needcessity 
that we should know the worst one time or another, so I determin- 
ed to push for’ad. I was no slouch of a hunter, as you may sup- 
pose ; so, as I was nearing the campj I begun sneaking; and, 
taking it sometimes on hands and knees, and sometimes flat to the 
ground, where there was neither tr^e nor bush to cover me, I 
went ahead, Clinch keeping close behind me, and not showing any 
notion of what I was after. It was “a slow business, because it 
was a ticklish business ; but I was a leetle too anxious to be al- 
together so careful as a good sneak ought to be, and I went on 
rather faster than I would advise any young man to go in a time 
of war, when the inimy is in the neighbourhood. Well, as I went, 
there was the fire, getting larger and larger every minute, and 
there were the Indians round it, getting plainer and plainer. 
There was so much smoke that there was no making out, at any 
distance, any but their figures, and these, every now and then, 
would be so wrapt In the smoke that not more than half of them 
could be seen at the same moment. At last I stopped, jest at a 
place where 1 thought I could make out all that I wanted. There 
was a sizeable rock before me, and I leaned my elbows on it to look. 


46 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


[ reckon I warn’t more than thirty yards from the fire. There 
were some bushes betwixt us, and what with the bushes and the 
smoke, it was several minutes before I could separate man from 
man, and see what they were all adoing, and when I did, it was 
only for a moment at a time, when a puff of smoke would wrap 
them all, and make it as difficult as ever. But when I did con- 
trive to see clearly, the sight was one to worry me to the core, 
for, in the midst of the redskins, I could see a white one, and that 
white one a woman. There was no mistake. There were the 
Indians, some with their backs, and some with their faces to me ; 
and there, a little a-dne side, but still among them, was a woman. 
When the smoke blowed off, I could see her white face, bright 
like any star, shining out of the clouds, and looking so pale and 
ghastly that my blood cruddled in my veins to think lest she might, 
be dead from fright. But it couldn’t be so, for she was sitting up 
and looking about her. But the Indians were motionless. They 
jest sat or lay as when I first saw them — doing nothing — saying 
nothing, but jes i as motionless as the stone under my elbow. I 
couldn’t stand looking where I was, so I began creeping again, 
getting nigher and nigher, until it seemed to me as if I ought to 
be able to read every face. But what with the paint and smoke, 
I couldn’t make out a single Indian. Their figures seemed plain 
enough in their buffalo-skins and blankets, but their faces seemed 
always in the dark. But it wasn’t so with the woman. I could 
make her out clearly. She was very young ; I reckon not more 
than fifteen, and it seemed to me as if I knew her looks very well. 
She was very handsome, and her hair was loosed upon her back. 
My heart felt strange to see her. I was weak as any child. It 
seemed asif I could die for the gal, and yet I hadn’t strength enough 
to raise my rifle to my shoulder. The weakness kept on me the 
more I looked ; for every moment seemed to make the poor child 
more and more dear to me. But the strangest thing of all was 
to see how motionless was every Indian in the camp. Not a word 
was spoken — not a limb or finger stirred. There they sat, or lay, 
round about the fire, like so many effigies, looking at the gal, and 
she looking at them. I never was in such a fix of fear and weak- 
ness in my life. What was I to do ? I had got so nigh that 1 
could have stuck my knife, with a jerk, into the heart of any one 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


47 


of the party, yet I hadn’t the soul to lift it ; and before I knew 
where I was, 1 cried like a child. But my crying didn’t make 
’em look about ’em. It only brought my poor dog Clinch leaping 
upon me, and whining, as if he wanted to give me consolation. 
Hardly knowing what I did, I tried to set him upon the camp, 
but tlie poor fellow didn’t seem to understand me ; and in my 
desperation, for it was a sort of madness growing out of my scare, 
I jumped headlong for’ad, jest w'here I saw the party sitting, will 
ing to lose my life rather than suffer from such a strange sort of 
misery. 


48 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER IY. 

u Will you believe me ! there were no Indians, no young wo- 
man, no fire ! I stood up in the very place where I had seen the 
blaze and the smoke, and there was nothing ! I looked for’ad 
and about me — there was no sign of fire any where. Where I 
stood was covered with dry leaves, the same as the rest ol tne. 
forest. I was stupefied. I was like a man roused out of sleep 
by a strange dream, and seeing nothing. All was dark and silent. 
The stars were overhead, but that was all the light I had. I was 
more scared than ever, and, as it’s a good rule when a man feels 
that he can do nothing himself, to look to the great God who can 
do every thing, I kneeled down and said my prayers — the second 
time that night that 1 had done the same thing, and the second 
time, I reckon, that I had ever done so in the woods. After that 
I felt stronger. I felt sure that this sign hadn’t been shown to me 
for nothing ; and while I was turning about, looking and thinking 
to turn on the back track for home, Clinch began to prick up his 
ears and waken up. I clapped him on his back, and got my 
knife ready. It might be a ‘painter that stirred him, for he could 
scent that beast a great distance. But, as he showed no fright, 
only a sort of quickening, I knew there was nothing to fear. In 
a moment he started off, and went boldly ahead. I followed him, 
but Hadn’t gone twenty steps down the hill and into the hollow, 
when I heard something like a groan. This quickened me, and 
..eeping up with the dog, he led me to the foot of the hollow, 
where was a sort of pond. Clinch ran right for it, and another 
groan set me in the same direction. When I got up to the dog, 
he was on the butt-end of an old tree that had fallen, I reckon, 
before my time, and was half buried in the water. I jumped on 
it, and walked a few steps for’ad, when, what should I see but a 
human, half across the log, with his legs hanging in the water, 
and his head down. I called Clinch back out of my way, and 
went to the spot. The groans were pretty constant. I stooped 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


49 


down and laid my hands upon the person, and, as I felt the hair, l 
knew it was an Indian. The head was clammy with blood, so 
that my fingers stuck, and when I attempted to turn it, to look at 
the face, the groan was deeper than ever ; but ’twarn’t a time 
to suck one’s fingers. I took him up, clapped my shoulders to it, 
and, fixing my feet firmly on the old tree, which was rather slippe- 
ry, I brought the poor fellow out without much trouble. Though 
tall, he was not heavy, and was only a boy of fourteen or fifteen. 
The wonder was how a lad like that should get into such a fix. 
Well, I brought him out and laid him on the dry leaves. His 
groans stopped, and I thought he was dead, but I felt his heart, 
rmvJ it was still warm, and I thought, though I couldn’t be sure, 
there was a beat under my fingers. What to do was the next 
question. It was now pretty late in the night. I had been all 
day a-foot., and, though still willing to go, yet the thought of such 
a weight on my shoulders made me stagger. But ’twouldn’t do 
to leave him where he was to perish. I thought, if so be I had a 
son in such a fix, what would I think of the stranger who should 
go home and wait till daylight to give him help ! No, darn my 
splinters, said I, — though I had just done my prayers, — if I leave 
the lad — and, tightening my girth, I give my whole soul to it, and 
hoisted him on my shoulders. My cabin, 1 reckoned, was good 
three miles off. You can guess what trouble I had, and what a 
tire under my load, before I got home and laid the poor fellow 
down by the fire. I then called up Betsy, and we both set to 
work to see if we could stir up the life that was in mm. She cut 
away his hair, and I w r ashed the blood from his head, which 
chopped to the bone, either with a knife or hatchet. It was a God’s 
olessing it hadn’t got?'' his brain, for it was fairly enough 
aimed for it, jest abo»^ ...a ear. When we come to open his 
clothes, Wc found another wound in his side. This was dor 
with a knife, and, I suppose, w r as pretty deep. He had lost blooa 
enough, for all his clothes were stiff with it. ‘W e knew nothing 
much of doctoring, but we had some rum in the cabin, and after 
washing his wounds clean with it, and pouring some down his 
throat, he began to groan more freely, and by that we knew he 
w^as coming to a nateral feeling. We rubbed his body down with 
Warm cloths, and after a little while, seeing that he made some 

5 


50 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


signs, I give him water as much as he could drink. This seemed 
to do him good, and having done every thing that we thought could 
help him, we wrapped him up warmly before the fire, and 1 
stretched myself off beside him. ’Twould be a long story to tell, 
step by step, how he got on. It’s enough to say that he didn’t 
die that bout. We got him on his legs in a short time, doing lit- 
tle or nothing for him more than we did at first. The lad was a 
good lad, though, at first, when he first came to his senses, he was 
mighty shy, wouldn’t look steadily in our faces, and, I do believe, 
if he could have got out of the cabin, would have done so as soon 
as he could stagger. But he was too weak to try that, and, mean- 
while, when he saw our kindness, he was softened. By little and 
little, he got to play with my little Lucy, who was not quite six 
years old ; and, after a while, he seemed to be never better pleas- 
ed than when they played together. The child, too, after her 
first fright, leaned to the lad, and was jest as willing to play with 
him as if he had been a cl‘ar white like herself. He could say 
a few words of English from the beginning, and learnt quickly ; 
but, though he talked tolerable free for an Indian, yet I could 
never get him to tell me how he was wounded, or-by whom. His 
brow blackened when I spoke of it, and his lips would be shut to- 
gether, as if he was ready* to fight sooner than to speak. Well, 
1 didn’t push him to know, for I was pretty sure the head of the 
truth W'll be sure to come some time or other, if you once have 
it by the tail provided you don’t jerk it off by straining too hard 
upon it. 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


51 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ I suppose the lad had been with us a matter of six weeks, get- 
ting better every day, but so slowly that he had not, at the end of 
that time, been able to leave the picket. Meanwhile, our troub- 
les with the Indians were increasing. As yet, there had been no 
bloodshed in our quarter, but we heard of murders and sculpings 
on every side, and we took for granted that we must have our 
turn. We made our preparations, repaired the pickets, laid in 
ammunition, and took turns for scouting nightly. At length, the 
signs of Indians got to be thick in our parts, though we could see 
none. Jake Ransom had come upon one of tFeir camps after 
they had left it ; and we had reason to apprehend every thing, in- 
asmuch as the outlyers didn’t show themselves, as they used to 
do, but prowled about the cabins and went from place to place, 
only by night, or by close skulking in the thickets. One evening 
after this, 1 went out as usual to go the rounds, iaking Clinch 
with me, but I hadn’t got far from the gate, when the dog stop- 
ped and gave a low bark ; — then I knew there was mischief, so 1 
turned round quietly, without making any show of scare, and got 
back safely, though not a minute too soon. They trailed me to 
the gate the moment after I had got- it fastened, and were pretty 
mad, I reckon, when they found their plan had failed for surpris- 
ing me.* But for the keen nose of poor Clinch, with all my skill 
in scouting, — and it was not small even in that early day, — 
they’d ’a had me, and all -that was mine, before the sun could 
open his eyes to see what they were after. Finding they had 
failed in their ambush, they made the woods ring with the war- 
whoop, which was a sign that they were guine to give us a 
regular siege. At the sound of the whoop, we could see the eyes 
of the Indian boy brighten, and his ears prick up, jest like a 
hound’s when he first gets scent of the deev, or hears the horn of 
the hunter. I looked closely at the lad, and was dub’ous what to 
do. He moutbe only an enemy in the camp, and while I was 


52 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


fighting in front, he might be cutting the throats of my wife and 
children within. I did not tell you that I had picked up his bow 
and arrows near the little lake where I had found him, and his 
hunting-knife was sticking in his belt when I brought him home. 
Whether to take these away from him, was the question. Sup- 
pose I did, a billet of wood would answer pretty near as well. 
1 thought the matter over while I watched him. Thought runs 
mighty quick in time of danger! Well, after turning it over on 
every side, I concluded ’twas better to trust him jest as if he had 
been a sure friend. I couldn’t think, after all we had done for 
him, that he’d be false, so I said to him — 4 Lenatewa !’ — ’twas sc 
he called himself — £ those are your people !’♦ £ Yes !’ he answer- 
ed slowly, and lifting himself up as if he had been a lord — he 
was a stately-looking lad, and carried himself like the son of a 
Micco,* as he was — £ Yes, they are the people of Lenatewa — ■ 
must he go to them V and he made the motion of going out. But 
I stopped him. I was not willing to lose the security which I 
had from his being a sort of prisoner. 4 No,’ said I ; 4 no, Lena- 
lewa, not to-nigbt. To-morrow will do. To-morrow you can 
tell them I am a friend, not an enemy, and they should not 
come to burn my wigwam.’ £ Brother — friend !’ said the lad, 
advancing with a sort of freedom and taking my hand. He then 
went to my wife, and did the same tiling, — not regarding she was 
a woman, — 4 Brother — friend !’ I watched him closely, watched 
his eye and his motions, and I said to Betsy, 4 The lad is true ; 
don’t be afeard !’ But we passed a weary night. Every now 
and then we could hear the whoop of the Indians. From the loop- 
holes we could see the light of three fires on different sides, by 
which we knew that they were prepared to cut off any help that 
might come to us from the rest of the settlement. But I didn’t 
give in or despair. I worked at one thing or another all night, 
and though Lenatewa gave me no help, yet he sat quietly, or laid 
himself down before the fire, as if he had nothing in the' world to 
do in the, L. 2 ss. Next morning by daylight, I found him al- 

ready dressed in the same bloody drt v *" 5 which he had on when I 
found him. He had thrown aside all that I gave him, and though 


* A prince or chief. 


THE TWO CAMPS 


53 


the hunting-shirt and leggins which he now wore, were very 
much stained with blood and dirt, he had fixed them about him 
with a good deal of care and r.eatness, as if preparing to see com- 
pany. I must tell you that an Indian of good family always has 
a nateral sort of grace and dignity which I never saw in a white 
man. He was busily engaged looking through one of the loop- 
holes, and though I could distinguish nothing, yet it was cl’ai 
that he saw something to interest him mightily. I soon found out 
that, in spite of all my watchfulness, he had contrived to have some 
sort of correspondence and communication with those outside. 
This was a wonder to me then, for I did not recollect his bow and 
arrows. It seems that he had shot an arrow through one of the 
loop-holes, to the end of which he had fastened a tuft of his own 
Jvffr. The effect of this was considerable, and to this it was owing 
that, for a few hours afterwards, we saw not an Indian. The 
arrow was shot at the very peep of day. What they were about, 
in the meantime, I can only guess, and the guess was only easy, 
after I had known all that was to happen. That they were in 
council what to do was cl’ar enough. I was not to know that the 
council was like to end in cutting some of their own throats in- 
stead of ours. But when we did see the enemy fairly, they came 
out of the woods in two parties, not actually separated, but not 
moving together. It" seemed as if there was some strife among 
them. Their whole number could not be less than forty, and 
some eight or ten of these walked apart under the lead of a chief, 
a stout, dark-looking fellow, one-half of whose face was painted 
black as midnight, with a red circle round both his eyes. The 
otner party was headed by an old white-headed chief, who couldn’t 
ha’ been less than sixty years — a pretty fellow, you may be sure, 
at his time of life, to be looking after sculps of women and chil- 
dren. While I was kneeling at my loop-hole looking at them, 
Lenatewa came to me, and touching me on the arm, pointed to 
the old chief, saying — ‘ Micco Lenatewa Glucco,’ by which I 
guessed he was the father or grandfather of the lad. { Well,’ I 
said, seeing that the best plan was to get their confidence and 
friendship if possible,— ‘ Well, lad, go to your father and tell him 
what Daniel Nelson has done for you, and let’s have peace. We 
can fight, boy, as you see ; we have plenty of arms and proves*. 


54 - 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


ions ; and with this rifle, though you may not believe it, I could 
pick off your father, the king, and that other chief, who has so 
devilled himself up with paint.’ ‘ Shoot !’ said the lad quickly, 
pointing to the chief of whom I had last spoken. ‘ Ah ! he is 
your enemy then V The lad nodded his head, and pointed to the 
ound on his temple, and that in his side. I now began to see 
.o true state of the case. ‘ No,’ said I ; £ no, Lenatewa, I will 
•noot none. 1 am for peace. I would do good to the Indians, 
and be their friend. Go to your father and tell him so. Go, and 
make him be, my friend.’ The youth caught my hand, placed it on 
the top of his head, and exclaimed, ‘ Good !’ I then attended him 
down to the gate, but, before he left the cabin, he stopped and put 
his hand on the head of little Lucy, — and I felt glad, for it seemed 
to say, ‘ you shat ’t be hurt — not a hair of your head !’ I let him 
out, fastened up, and then hastened to the loop-hole. 


THE TWO CAMPS. * 


56 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ And now came a sight to tarrify. As soon as the Indians 
saw the young prince, they set up a general cry. I couldn’t tell 
whether it was of joy, or what. He went for’ad boldly, though 
he was still quite weak, and the king at the head of his party ad- 
vanced to meet him. The other and smaller party, headed by 
the black chief, whom young Lenatewa had told me to shoot, came 
forward also, but very slowly, and it seemed as if they were 
doubtful whether to come or go. Their leader looked pretty 
much beflustered. But they hadn’t time for much study, for, af- 
ter the young prince had met his father, and a few words had 
passed between them, I saw the finger of Lenatewa point to the 
black chief. At this, he lifted up his clenched fists, and worked 
his body* as if he was talking angrily. Then, sudden, the war- 
whoop sounded from the king’s party, and the other troop of In- 
dians began to ruii, the black chief at their head ; but he had not 
got twenty steps when a dozen arrows went into him, and he tum- 
bled for’a’ds, and grappled with the earth. It was all over with 
him. His party was scattered on all sides, but were not pursued, 
it seemed that all the arrows had been aimed at the one person, 
and when he sprawled, there was an end to it : the whole affair 
was over in five minutes. 


S6 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ It was a fortunate ’affair for us. Lenatewa soon brought the 
old Micco* to terms of peace. For that matter, he had only con- 
sented to take up the red stick because it was reported by the 
black chief — who was the uncle of the young Micco, and had 
good reasons for getting him out of the way — that he had been 
murdered by the whites. This driv’ the old man to desperation, 
and brought him down upon us. When he knew the whole truth, 
and saw what friends we had been to his son, there was no end 
to his thanks and promises. He swore to be my friend while the 
sun shone, while the waters run, and while the mountains stood, 
and I believe, if the good old man had been spared so long, he 
would have been true to his oath. But, while he lived, he kept 
it, and so did his son when he succeeded him as Micco Glucco. 
Year after year went by, and though there was frequent war be- 
tween the Indians and the whites, yet Lenatewa kept it from our 
doors. He himself was at war several times with our people, but 
never with our settlement. He put his totem on our trees, and 
the Indians knew that they were sacred. But, after a space of 
eleven years, there was a change. The young prince seemed to 
have forgotten our friendship. We now never saw him among 
us, and, unfortunately, some of our young men — the young men 
of our own settlement — murdered three young warriors of the 
Ripparee tribe, who were found on horses stolen from us. I was 
very sorry when I heard it, and began to fear the consequences ; 
and they came upon us when we least looked for it. I had every 
reason to think that Lenatewa would still keep the warfare from 
my little family, but I did not remember that he was the prince 
of a tribe only, and not of the nation. This was a national war- 
fare, in which the -whole Cherokee people were in arms. Many 
persons, living still, remember that terrible war, and how the 
Carolinians humbled them at last ; but there’s no telling how 
much blood was shed in that war, how many sculps taken, how 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


5? 


much misery suffered by young and old, men, women, and chil- 
dren. Our settlement had become so large and scattered that 
we had to build a sizeable blockhouse, which we stored,, and to 
which we could retreat whenever it was necessary. We took 
possession of it on hearing from our scouts that Indian trails had 
been seen, and there we put the women and children, under a 
strong guard. By day we tended our farms, and only went to 
our families at night. We had kept them in this fix for live 
weeks or thereabouts, and there was no attack. The Indian signs 
disappeared, and we all thought the storm had blown over, and 
began to hope and to believe that the old friendship of Lenatewa 
had saved us. With this thinking, we began to be less watchful. 
The men would stay all night at the farms, and sometimes, in the 
day, would carry with them the women, and sometimes some even 
the children. I cautioned them agin this, but they mocked me, 
and said I was gifting old and scary. I told them, ‘ Wait and 
see who’ll scare first.’ But, I confess, notoseeing any Indians in 
all my scouting, I began to feel and think like the rest, and to 
grow careless. I let Betsy go now and then with me to the farm, 
though she kept it from me that she had gone there more than 
once with Lucy, without any man protector. Still, as it was only 
a short mile and a half from the block, and we could hear of no 
Indians, it did not seem so venturesome a thing. One day we 
heard of some very large b’afs among the thickets — a famous 
range for them, about four miles from the settlement ; and a par- 
ty of us, Simon Lorris, Hugh Darling, Jake Ransom, William 
Harkless, and myself, taking our dogs, set off on the hunt. We 
started the b’ar with a rush, and I got the first shot at a mighty big 
she b’ar, the largest I had ever seen — lamed the critter slightly, 
and dashed into the thickets after her ! The others pushed, in an- 
other direction, after the rest, leaving me to finish my work as I 
could. 

“ I had two dogs with me, Clap and Claw, but they were young 
things, and couldn’t be trusted much in a close brush with a b’ar. 
Old Clinch was dead, or he’d ha’ made other guess-work with the 
varmint. Put, hot after the b’ar, I didn’t think of the quality of 
the dogs tilf I found myself in a fair wrestle with the brute. I 
don’t brag, my friends, but that was a fight. I tell you my 


58 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


breath w as clean gone, for the b’ar had me about the thin of mv 
body, and I thought I was doubled up enough to be laid down 
without more handling. But my heart was strong when I thought 
of Betsy and the children, and I got my knife, with hard jugging 
— though I couldn’t use my arm above my elbow — through the 
old critter’s hide, and in among her ribs. That only seemed to 
make her hug closer, and I reckon 1 was clean gone, if it hadn’t 
been that she blowed out before me. 1 had worked a pretty deep 
window in her waist, and then life run out plentiful. Her nose 
dropped agin my breast, and then her paws ; and when the strain 
was gone, I fell down like a sick child, and she fell on top of me. 
But she warn’t in a humour to do more mischief. She roughed me 
once or twice more with her paws, but that was only because she 
was at her last kick. There I lay a matter of half an hour, with 
the dead b’ar alongside o’ me. I was. almost as little able to 
move as she, and 1 vomited as if I had taken physic. When 1 
come to myself and got up, there was no sound of the hunters. 
There I \tfas with the two dogs and the b’ar, all alone, and the 
sun already long past the turn. My horse, which I had fastened 
outside of the thicket, had slipped his bridle, and, I reckoned, had 
either strayed off grazing, or had pushed back directly for the 
block. These things didn’t make me feel much better. But, 
though my stomach didn’t feel altogether right, and my ribs were 
as sore as if I had been sweating under a coating of hickory, 1 
felt that there was no use and no time to stand there grunting. 
But I made out to skin and to cut up the b’ar, and a noble mount- 
ain of fat she made. I took the skin with me, and, covering the 
flesh with bark, I whistled off the- dogs, after they had eat to fill, 
and pushed after my horse. I followed his track for some time, 
till I grew fairly tired. He had gone oft' in a scare and at a full 
gallop, and, instead of going home, had dashed down the lower 
side of the thicket, then gone aside, to round some of the hills, and 
thrown himself out of the track, it moutbe seven miles or more. 
When I found this, I saw there was no use to hunt him that day 
and afoot, and I had no more to do but turn about, and push as 
fast as I could for the block. But this was work enough. By 
this time the sun was pretty low, and there was now a good seven 
miles, work it how J could, before me. But I was getting ove' 


THE TWO CAMPS 


59 


my b’ar-sickness, and though my legs felt weary enough, my 
stomach was better, and my heart braver; and, as I was in no 
hurry, having the whole night before me, and knowing the way 
by night as well as by light, I began to feel cheerful enough, all 
tilings considering. 1 pushed on slowly, stopping every now and 
hen for rest, and recovering my strength this way. I had some 
parched meal and sugar in my pouch which I ate, and it helped 
me mightily. It was my only dinner that day. The evening 
got to be very still. I wondered I had seen and heard nothing of 
Jake Ransom and the rest, but I didn’t feel at all oneasy about 
them, thinking that, like all other hunters, they would naterally 
follow the game to any distance. But, jest when I was thinking 
about them, I heard a gun, then another, and after that all got to 
be as quiet as ever. I looked to my own rifle and felt for my 
knife, and put forward a little more briskly. I suppose I had 
walked an hour after this, when it came on close dark, and I was 
still four good miles from the block. The night was cloudy 
there were no stars, and the feeling in the air was damp and on. 
comfortable. I began to wish I was safe home, and felt queerish, 
almost as bad as I did when the b’ar was ’bracing me ; but it 
warn’t so much the body-sickness as the heart-sickness. I felt as 
if something was going wrong. Jest as this feeling was most wor- 
risome, I stumbled over a human. My blood cruddled, when, 
feeling about, I put my hand on his head, and found the sculp 
was gone. Then I knew there was mischief. I couldn’t make 
out who ’twas that was under me, but I reckoned ’twas one of 
the hunters. There was nothing to be done but to push for ’ad. 
1 didn’t feel any more tire. I felt ready for fight, and when I 
thought of our wives and children in the block, and what might 
become of them, I got wolfish, though the Lord only knows what 
I was minded to do. I can’t say I had any raal sensible thoughts 
of what was to be done in the business. I didn’t trust myself to 
think whether the Indians had been to the block yet or no ; though 
ugly notions came across me when I remembered how we let the 
women and children go about to the farms. I was in a complete 
fever and agy. I scorched one time and shivered another, but I 
pushed on, for there was now no more feeling of tire in my limbs 
than if they were made of steel. By this time I had reached 


60 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


that long range of hills where I first saw that strange camp- 
fire. now eleven 3 ears gone, that turned out to be a deception, and 
it was nateral enough that the thing should come fresh into my 
mind, jest at that moment. W hile I was thinking over the wonder, 
and asking myself, as I had done over and often before, what it 
possibly could mean, I reached the top of one of the hills, from 
which 1 could see, in daylight, the whole country for a matter of 
ten miles or more on every side. What was my surprise, do you 
reckon, when there, jest on the very same hill opposite where I 
had seen that apparition of a camp, I saw another, and this time 
it was a raal one. There was a rousing blaze, and though the 
woods and undergrowth were thicker on this than on the other 
side, from which I had seen it before, yet I could make out that 
there were several figures, and them Indians. It sort o’ made 
me easier to see the enemy before, and then I could better tell 
what I had to do. I was to spy out the camp, see what the red- 
devils were thinking to do, and what they had already' done. I 
was a little better scout and hunter this time than when I made 
the same sort o’ search before, and I reckoned that I could get 
nigh enough to see all that was going on, without stirring up any 
dust among ’em. But I had to keep the dogs back. I couldn’t 
tie ’em up, for they’d howl ; so I stripped my hunting-shirt and 
put it down for one to guard, and I gfive my cap and horn 
to another. I knew they’d never leave ’em, for I had Earned 
’em all that sort of business — to watch as well as to fetch and 
carry. I then said a sort of short running prayer, and took the 
trail. I had to work for’ad slowly. If I had gone on this time 
as I did in that first camp transaction, I’d ha’ lost nay sculp to 
a sartainty. Well, to shorten a long business, I tell you that I 
got nigh enough, without scare or surprise, to see all that I cared 
to see, and a great deal more than I wished to see ; and now, for 
the first time, I saw the meaning of that sight which I had, eleven 
years before, of the camp, that come to nothing. I saw that first 
sight over again, the Indians round the fire, a ) r oung woman in 
the middle, and that young woman my own daughter, my child, 
my poor, dear Lucy ! 


THE TWO CAMPS 


61 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ That was a sight for a father. I can’t tell you — and l won’t 
try — how I felt. But 1 lay there, resting upon my hands and 
knees, jest as if I had been turned into stone with looking. I lay 
so for a good half hour, I reckon, without stirring a limb ; and you 
could only tell that life was in me, by seeing the big drops that 
squeezed out of my eyes now and then, and by a sort of shivering 
that shook me as you sometimes see the canebrake shaking with 
the gust of the pond inside. I tried to pray to God for help, but I 
couldn’t pray, and as for thinking, that was jest as impossible. 
But I could do nothing by looking, and, for that matter, it was 
pretty cla’r to me, as I stood, with no help — by myself — one rifle 
only and knife — I couldn’t do much by moving. I could have 
lifted the gun, and in a twinkle, tumbled the best fellow in the 
gang, but what good was that guine to do me ? I was never fond 
of blood-spilling, and if I could have been made sure of my 
daughter, I’d ha’ been willing that the red devils should have had 
leave to live for ever. What was I to do ? Go to the block ? 
Who know’d if it warn’t taken, with every soul in it ? And 
where else was I to look for help ? Nowhere, nowhere but to 
God ! I groaned — I groaned so loud that I was dreadful ’feared 
that they’d hear me ; but they were tod busy among themselves, 
eating supper, and poor Lucy in the midst, not eating, but so pale, 
and looking so miserable — jest as I had seen her, when she was 
.only a child — in the same fix, though ’twas only an appearance 
— eleven years ago ! Well, at last, I turned off. As I couldn’t 
«iay what to do, I was too miserable to look, and I went down to 
the bottom of the hill and rolled about on the ground, pulling the 
hair out of my head and groaning, as if that was to do me any 
good. Before I knew where I was, there was a hand on my 
shoulder. I jumped up to my feet, and flung my rifle over my 
nead, meaning to bring the butt down upon the stranger — but his 
voice stopped me. 


62 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


“ 1 Brother,’ said he, £ me Lenatewa !’ 

“ The way he talked, his soft tones, made me know that the 
young prince meant to be friendly, and I gave him my hand ; bu» 
the tears gushed out as I did so, and I cried out like a man struck 
in the very heart, while I pointed to the hill — ‘ My child, my 
child !'’ 

“ ‘ Be man !’ said he, ‘ come !’ pulling me away. 

But, will you save her, Lenatewa V 

“ He did not answer instantly, but led me to the little lake, ai ... 
pointed to the old tree over which I had borne his lifeless boay so 
many years ago. By that I knew he meant to tell me, he had no t 
forgotten what I had done for him ; and would do for me all he 
could. But this did not satisfy me. I must know how and when 
it was to be done, and what was his hope ; for I could see from 
his caution, and leading me away from the camp, that he did not 
command the party, and had no power over them. He then asked 
me, if I had not seen the paint of the warriors in the camp. But i 
had seen nothing but the fix of my child. He then described the 
paint to me, which was his way of showing me that the party on 
the hill were his deadly enemies. The paint about their eyes 
was that of the great chief, his uncle, who had tried to murder 
him years ago, and who had been shot, in my sight, by the partj 
of his father. The young chief, now in command of the band on 
the hill was the son of his uncle, and sworn to revenge the death 
of his father upon him, Lenatewa. This he made me onderstand 
in a few minutes. And he gave me farther to onderstand, that 
there was no way of getting my child from them onless by cun- 
ning. He had but two followers with him, and they were even 
then busy in making preparations. But of these preparations he 
either would not or could not give me any account ; and I had to 
wait on him with all the patience 1 could muster ; and no eas}' 
trial it was, for an Indian is the most cool and slow-moving crea- 
ture in the world, unless he’s actually fighting, and then he’s 
about the quickest. After awhile, Lenatewa led me round the 
hill. We fetched a pretty smart reach, and before I knew where 
I was, he led me into a hollow that I had never seen before. Here, 
to my surprise, there were no less than twelve or fourteen horses 
fastened, that these red devils had stolen from the settlement that 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


63 


very day, and mine was among them. I did not know it till the 
young prince told me. 

“ ‘ Him soon move,’ said he, pointing to one on the outside 
which a close examination showed me to be my own — ‘ Him soon 
move,’ — and these words gave me a notion of his plan. But he 
did not allow me to have any hand in it — not jest then, at least. 
Bidding me keep a watch on the fire above, for the hollow in which 
we stood was at the foot of the very hill the Indians had made 
their camp on — though the stretch was a long one between — lie 
rushed for’ad like a shadow, and so slily, so silently, that, though 1 
thought myself a good deal of a scout before, I saw then that I warn’t 
fit to hold a splinter to him. In a little time he had unhitched my 
horse, and quietly led him farther down the hollow, half round 
the hill, and then up the opposite hill. There was very little 
noise, the wind was from ',he camp, and, though they didn’t show 
any alarm, I was never more scary in my life. I followed Lena- 
tewa, and found where he had fastened my nag. He had placed 
him several hundred yards from the Indians, on his way to the 
block ; and, where we now stood, owing to the bend of the hollow, 
the camp of the Indians was between us and where they had 
hitched the stolen horses. When I saw this, I began to guess 
something of his plan. Meantime, one after the other, his two 
followers came up, and made a long report to him in their own 
language. This done, he told me that three of my hunting com- 
panions had been sculped, the other, who was Hugh Darling, had 
got off char, though fired upon twice, and had alarmed the block, 
and that my daughter had been made prisoner at the farm to 
which she had gone without any company. This made me a lit- 
tle easier, and Lenatewa then told me what he meant to do. In 
course, I had to do something myself towards it. Off he went 
with his two men, leaving me to myself. When I thought they 
had got pretty fairly round the hill, I started back for the camp, 
trying my best, you may be sure, to move as slily as Lenatewa. 
I got within twenty-five yards, I reckon, when I thought it better 
to lie by quietly and wait. I could see every head in the huddle, 
and my poor child among them, looking whiter than a sheet, be- 
• side their ugly painted skins. Well, I hadn’t long to wait, when 
there was such an uproar emong th“ stolen horses in the hollow 


64 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


on the opposite side of the hill — such a trampling, such a whinnying 
and whickering, you never heard the like. Now, you must know, 
that a stolen horse, to an Indian, is jest as precious as a sweet- 
heart to a white man ; and when the rumpus reached the camp, 
there was a rush of every man among them, for his critter. 
Every redskin, but one, went over the hill after the horses, and he 
jumped up with the rest, but didn’t move off. He stood over poor 
Lucy with his tomahawk, shaking it above her head, as if guine 
to strike every minute. She, poor child — I could see her as plain 
as the fire-light, for she sat jest on one side of it — her hands were 
clasped together. She was praying, for she must have looked 
every minute to be knocked on the head. You may depend, I 
found it very hard to keep in. I was a’most bilingover, the more 
when I saw the red devil making his flourishes, every now and 
then, close to the child’s ears, with his bloody we’pon. But it 
was a needcessity to keep in till the sounds died off pretty much, 
so as not to give them any scare this side, till they had dashed 
ahead pretty far ’pon the other. I don’t know that I waited quite 
as long as I ought to, but I waited as long as my feelings would 
let me, and then I dropped the sight of my rifle as close as I could 
fix it on the breast of the Indian that had the keeping of my child. 
1 took aim, but I felt I was a little tremorsome, and I stopped. I 
know’d I had but one shoot, and if I didn’t onbutton him in that 
one, it would be a bad shoot for poor Lucy. I didn’t fear to hit 
her , and I was pretty sure I’d hit him. But i.t must be a dead 
shot to do good, for I know’d if I only hurt him, that he’d sink the 
tomahawk in her head with what strength he had left him. I 
brought myself to it again, and this time I felt strong. I could 
jest hear a little of the hubbub of men and horses afar off. I knew 
it was the time, and, resting the side of the muzzle against a tree, 
1 give him the whole blessing of the bullet. I didn’t stop to ask 
what luck, but run in, with a sort o’ cry, to do the finishing with 
the knife. But the thing was done a’ready. The beast was on 
his back, and I only had to use the knife in cutting the vines that 
fastened the child to the sapling behind her. The brave gal 
didn’t scream or faint. She could only say, ‘ Oh, my father !’ 
and I could only say, ‘ Oh ! my child !’ And what a precious 
hug followed ; but it was only for a minute. YVe had no time to 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


65 


waste in hugging. We pushed at once for the place where I had 
left the critter, and if the good old nag ever used his four shanks 
to any purpose, he did that night. I reckon it was a joyful sur- 
prise to poor Betsy when we broke into the block. She had given 
it out for sartin that she’d never see me or the child again, with 
a nateral sculp cn our heads. 


6 


THE WltfWAM A N'T) TIIF CABIN 


'16 


CHAPTER IK. 

" There’s no need to tell you the whole story of this war be 
tween our people and the redskins. It’s enough that I tell you 
of what happened to us, and our share in it. Of the great affair, 
and all the fights and burnings, you’ll find enough in the printed 
books and newspapers. Wha: 1 lell you, though you can’t find it 
in any books, is je&t as true, for all that. Of our share in it, the 
worst has already been told you. The young chief, Oloschottee 
— for that was his name — the cousin and the enemy of Lenatewa, 
had command of the Indians that were to surprise our settlements; 
and though he didn’t altogether do what he expected and intended, 
he worked us quite enough of mischief as it was. He soon put 
fire to all our farms to draw us out of the block, but finding that 
wouldn’t do, he left us ; for an Indian gets pretty soon tired of a 
long sieg£ where there is neither rum nor blood to git drunk on. 
His force was too small to trouble us in the block, and so he 
drawed off his warriors, and we saw no more of him' until the 
peace. That followed pretty soon after General Middleton gave 
the nation that licking at Echotee, — a licking, I reckon, that they’ll 
remember long after my day. At that affair Lenatewa got an 
ugly bullet in his throat, and if it hadn’t been for one of his men, 
he’d ha’ got a bag’net in his breast. They made a narrow run 
with him, head foremost down the hill, with a whole swad of the 
mounted men from the low country at their heels. It was some 
time after the peace before he got better of his hurt, though the 
Indians are naterally more skilful in cures than white men. By 
this time we had all gone home to our farms, and had planted and 
rebuilt, and begun to forget our troubles, when who should pop 
into our cabin one day, but Lenatewa. He had got quite well 
of his hurts. He was a monstrous fine-looking fellow, tall and 
handsome, and he was dressed in his very best. He wore pan- 
taloons, like one of us, and his hunting shirt was a raally fine blue, 
with a wh te fringe. He wore no paint, and was quite nice and 


THE TWO CAMPS* 


6 1 


neat with his person. We all received him as an old friend, and 
he stayed with us three days. Then he went, and was gone for 
a matter of two weeks, when he came back and stayed with us 
another three days. And so, off and on, he came to visit us, un- 
til Betsy said to me one day, ‘ Daniel, that Indian, Lenatewa, 
comes here after Lucy. Leave a woman to guess these things.’ 
After she told me, I recollected that the young prince was quite 
watchful of Lucy, and would follow her out into the garden, and 
leave us, to walk with her. But then, again, I thought — ‘ What 
if he is favourable to my daughter ? The fellow’s a good fellow ; 
and a raal, noble-hearted Indian, that’s sober, is jest as good, to 
my thinking, as any white man in the land.‘ But Betsy wouldn’t 
hear to it. 4 Her daughter never should marry a savage, and a 
heathen, and a redskin, while her head was hot — and while her 
head was so hot, what was I to do ? All I could say was this 
only, 4 Don’t kick, Betsy, till you’re spurred. ’Twill be time 
enough to give the young Chief his answer when he asks the 
question ; and it won’t do for us to treat him rudely, when we 
consider how much we owe him..’ But she was of the mind that 
the boot was on the other leg, — that it was he and not us that 
owed the debt ; and all that 1 could do couldn’t keep her from 
showing the lad a sour face of it whenever he came. But he didn’t 
seem much to mind this, since I was civil and kind to him. Lucy 
too, though her mother warned her against him, always treated 
him civilly as I told her ; though she naturally would do so, for 
she couldn’t so easily forget that dreadful night when she was a 
prisoner in the camp of the enimy, not knowing what to expect, 
•with an Indian tomahawk over her head, and saved, in great part, 
by the cunning and courage of this same Lenatewa. The girl 
treated him kindly, and I was not sorry she did so. She walked 
and talked with him jest as if they had been brother and sister, 
and he was jest as polite to her as if he had been a born French- 
man. 

“You may be sure, it was no pleasant sight to my wife to see 
them two go out to walk. 4 Daniel Nelson,’ said she, 4 do you see 
and keep an eye on those people. There’s no knowing what may 
happen. I do believe that Lucy has a liking for that redskin, 
and should they run !’ — 4 Psho !’ said I, — but that wouldn’t do foi 


68 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


her, and so she made me watch the young people sure e. lough. 
“Twarn’t a business that I was overfund of, you may reckon, but 
I was a rough man and didn’t know much of woman natur’. I left 
the judgment of such things to my wife, and did pretty much what 
she told me. Whenever they went out to walk, I followed them, 
rifle in hand ; but it was only to please Betsy, for if I had seen 
the lad running off with the girl, I’m pretty sure, I’d never ha 
been the man to draw trigger upon him. As I said before, Le- 
natewa was jest as good a husband as she could have had. But, 
poor fellow, the affair was never to come to that. One day, af- 
ter he had been with us almost a week, he spoke softly to Lucy, 
and she got up, got her bonnet and went out with him. I didn’t 
see them when they started, for I happened to be in the upper 
story, — a place where we didn’t so much live, but where we used 
to go for shelter and defence whenever any Indians came about 
us. ‘ Daniel,’ said my wife, and I knew by the quickness and 
sharpness of her voice what ’twas she had to tell me. But jest 
then I was busy, and, moreover, I didn’t altogether like the sort 
of business upon which she wanted me to go. The sneaking afte 
an enimy, in raal warfare, is an onpleasant sort of thing enough 
but this sneaking after one that you think your friend is worse thafl 
running in a fair fight, and always gave me *a sheepish feeling 
after it. Besides, I didn’t fear Lenatewa, and I didn’t fear my 
daughter. It’s true, the girl treated him kindly and sweetly, but 
that was owing to the nateral sweetness of her temper, and be- 
cause she felt how much sarvice he had been to her and all of 
us. So. instead of going out after them, I thought I’d give them 
a look through one of the loop-holes. Well, there they went, 
walking among the trees, not far from the picket, and no time out 
of sight. As 1 looked at them, I thought to myself, ‘ Would n’t 
they make a handsome couple !’ Both of them were tall and well 
made. As for Lucy, there wasn’t, for figure, a finer set girl in 
all the settlement, and her face was a match for her figure. And 
then she was so easy in her motion, so graceful, and walked, or 
sate, or danced, — jest, for all the world, as if she was born only 
to do the particular thing she was doing. As for Lenatewa, he 
was a lad among a thousand. Now, a young Indian warrior, 
when he don’t drink, is about the noblest-looking creature, as he 


THE TWO CAMPS. 


65 


carries himself in he woods, that God ever did make. So straight, 
so proud, so stately, always as if he was doing a great action — 
as if he knew the whole world was looking at him. Lenatewa 
was pretty much the handsomest and noblest Indian I had ever 
seen ; and then, I know’d him to be raally so noble. As they 
walked together, their heads a little bent downwards, and Lucy’s 
pretty low, the thought flashed across me that, jest then, he was 
telling her all about his feelings ; and perhaps, said I to myself, 
the girl thinks about it pretty much as I do. Moutbe now, she 
likes him better than any body she has ever seen, and what more 
nateral ? Then I thought, if there is any picture in this life more 
sweet and beautiful than two young people jest beginning to feel 
love for one another, and walking together in the innocence of 
their hearts, under the shady trees, — I’ve never seen it ! I laid 
the rifle on my lap, and sat down on the floor and watched ’em 
through the loop until I felt the water in my eyes. They walked 
backwards and for’ads, not a hundred yards off, and I could see 
all their motions, though I couldn’t hear their words. An Indian 
don’t use his hands much, generally, but I could see that Lena- 
tewa was using his, — not a great deal, but as if he felt every, 
word he was saying. Then I began to think, what was I to do, 
if so be he was raally offering to marry Lucy, and she willing! 
How was I to do ? what was I to say ? — how could I refuse him 
when I was willing ? how could I say ‘ yes,’ when Betsy said 
‘ no !’ 

“ Well, in the midst of this thinking, what should I hear but a 
loud cry from the child, then a loud yell, — a regular war-whoop, 
— sounded right in front, as if it came from Lenatewa himself. 
I looked up quickly,, for, in thinking, I had lost sight of them, and 
was only looking at my rifle ; I looked out, and there, in the 
twinkle of an eye, there was another sight. I saw my daughter 
flat upon the ground, lying like one dead, and Lenatewa stagger- 
ing back as if he was mortally hurt ; while, pressing fast upon 
him, was an Indian warrior, with his tomahawk uplifted, and stri- 
king — once, twice, three times — hard and heavy, right upon the 
face and forehead of the young prince. From the black paint on 
his face, and the red ring about his eyes, and from his figure and 
the eagle feathers in his head, I soon guessed it was Oloschottee, 


70 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


and I then knew it was the old revenge for the killing of his fa- 
ther ; for an Indian never forgets that sort of obligation. Of 
course, I didn’t stand quiet to see an old friend, like Lenatewa, 
tumbled in that way, without warning, like a bullock ; and there 
was my own daughter lying flat, and I wasn’t to know that he 
hadn’t struck her too. It was only one motion for me to draw 
sight upon the savage, and another to pull trigger ; and I reckon 
he dropped jest as soon as the young Chief. I gave one whoop 
for all the world as if I was an Indian myself, and run out to the 
spot ; but Lenatewa had got his discharge from further service. 
He warn’t exactly dead, but his sense was swimming. He 
couldn’t say much, and that warn’t at all to the purpose. I 
could hear him, now and then, making a sort of singing noise, 
but that was soon swallowed up in a gurgle and a gasp, and it 
was all. over. My bullet was quicker in its working than Olos- 
chottee’s hatchet ; he was stone dead before I got to him. As for 
poor Lucy, she was not hurt, either by bullet or hatchet; but 
she had a hurt in the heart, whether from the scare she had, or 
because she had more feeling for the young prince than we reck- 
oned, there’s no telling. She warn’t much given to smiling after 
that. But, whether she loved Lenatewa, we couldn’t know, and 
I never was the man to ask her. It’s sartain she never married, 
and she had about as many chances, and good ones, too, as any 
girl in our settlement. You’ve seen her — some among you — 
and warn’t she a beauty — though I say it myself — the very 
flower of the forest !” 


THE LAST WAGER. 


71 


THE LAST WAGER, 

OR THE GAMESTER OF THE MISSISSIPPI 

“ I have set my life upon a cast, 

And I will stand the hazard of the die.” 

Shakspearb 


CHAPTER L 

Our story will be found to illustrate one of the current coin- 
monplaces of the day. Ever since my Lord Byron, in that poem 
of excellently expressed commonplaces, Don Juan, declared that 
lt truth was stranger than fiction,” every newspaper witling rings 
the changes upon the theme, until there is no relief to its dull- 
toned dissonance. That truth should frequently be found to be 
much stranger than any fiction, is neither so strange nor out of 
the course of things ; but is just in accordance, if we bestow any 
thought upon the matter, with the deliberate convictions of every 
reasoning mind. For, what is fiction, but the nice adaptation, 
by an artist, of certain ordinary occurrences in life, to a natural 
and probable conclusion ? It is not the policy of a goou artist to 
deal much in the merely extravagant. His real success, and the 
true secret of it, is to be found in the naturalness of his story, its 
general seemli.ness, and the close resemblancq. of its events to 
those which may or must take place in all instances of individuals 
subjected to like influences with those who figure in his narrative. 
The naturalness must be that of life as it is, or with life as it is 
shown in such picturesque situations as are probable — seemingly 
real — and such as harmonize equally with the laws of nature, 
and such as the artist has chosen for his guide. Except in sto- 
ries of broad extravagance- — ghost stories for example —in which 


72 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


the one purpose of the romancer — that of exciting wonder — is de- 
clared at the outset — except in such stories, or in others of the 
broad grin — such as are common and extravagant enough among 
the frontier raconteurs of the West, it were the very worst policy 
in the world for a writer of fiction to deal much in the marvellous. 
He would soon wear out the patience of the reader, who would 
turn away, with a dissatisfaction almost amounting to disgust, from 
any author who should be found too frequently to employ what is 
merely possible in human progress. We require as close rea- 
soning, and deductions as logically drawn, in tale and novel, as 
in a case at law or in equity ; much more close, indeed, than is 
often found to be the case in a Congressional harangue, and a far 
more tenacious regard to the interest of the reader than is shown 
in the report of a modern secretary. Probability, unstrained, 
must be made apparent at every step ; and if the merely possible 
be used at aH, it must be so used only, as, in looking like the 
probable, it is made to lose all its ambiguous characteristics. 

Vhat we show must not only be the truth, but it must also seem 
like the ..ruth ; for, as the skill of the artist can sometimes enable 
him to make what is false appear true, so it is equally the case 
that a want of skill may transmute the most unquestionable truth 
into something that nine persons in ten shall say, when they be- 
hold it, “ it looks monstrous like a lie !” 

That we are not at liberty to use too freely what is merely pos- 
sible in the material brought before us, is a fact more particular- 
ly known to painters, who have often felt the danger of any attempt 
to paint the sky as it sometimes appears to them. They dread to 
offend the suspicious incredulity of the cold and unobserving citi- 
zen. They see, with equal amazement and delight — but without 
daring to delineate — those intenser hues and exquisite gradations 
of light and shadow, those elaborate and graceful shapes of cloud, 
born of the rainbow — carnation, green and purple, which the sun 
sometimes, in fantastic mood, and as if in equal mockery of hu- 
man faith and art, makes upon the lovely background of the sky 
which he leaves at setting. The beautiful vision gone from sight, 
who would believe the poor artist, whatever his accuracy and fe 
licity of touch and taste, who had endeavoured to transfer, before 
it faded, the vanishing glory to his canvass ? Who could suppose. 


THE LAST WAGER. 


73 


and how admit, tiiat there had ever been such a panorama, of 
such super-artistical splendour, displayed before his eyes, without 
commanding his admiration and fixing his attention ? The very 
attempt to impose such an exhibition upon him as natural, would 
be something of a sarcasm, and a commentary upon the dull eye 
and drowsy mind which had failed to discern it for themselves. 
Nay, though the artist grappled the dull citizen by the arm at the 
very instant, and compelled his gaze upon the glorious vision ere it 
melted into the thin gray haze of evening, would he not be apt to 
say, “ How strange ! how very unnatural V 9 Certainly, it would 
be a nature and a truth infinitely more strange than the most 
audacious fiction that ever grew up at the touch of the most fan. 
lastic votary of art. 


74 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER II. 

The sketch which I propose will scarcely justify this long digres- 
sion ; and its character will be still less likely to correspond with 
the somewhat poetic texture of the introduction. It is simplyji 
strange narrative of frontier life ; one of those narratives in w V , 
a fact will appear very doubtful, unless the artist shall ^ ,.oit 
such sufficient skill in his elaborations, as to keep its rud points 
from offending too greatly the suspicious judgment of the reader. 
This is the task before me. The circumstances were picked up, 
when, a lad of eighteen, I first wandered over the then dreary and 
dangerous wastes of the Mississippi border. Noble, indeed, though 
wild and savage, was the aspect of that green forest country, as 
yet only slightly smitten by the sharp edges of the ranger’s axe. 
I travelled along the great Yazoo wilderness, in frequent proxim- 
ity with the Choctaw warriors. Most frequently I rode alone. 
Sometimes, a wayfarer from the East, solitary with myself, turned 
his horse’s head, for a few days’ space, on the same track with 
mine ; but, in most cases, my only companion was some sullen 
Choctaw, or some still more sullen half-breed, who, emerging sud 
denly from some little foot-path, would leave me half in doubt 
whether his introduction would be made first with the tomahawk 
or the tongue. Very few white men were then settled in the 
country ; still fewer were stationary. I rode forty and fifty miles 
without sign of human habitation, and found my bed and supper 
at night most generally in the cabin of the half-breed. But there 
was one, and that a remarkable exception to this universal neces- 
sity; and in this exception my story takes its rise. I had at 
length reached the borders of the nation, and the turbid waters 
of the Mississippi, at no great distance, flowed down towards the 
Gulf. The appearances of the white settler, some doubtful 
glimmerings of a more civilized region, were beginning to display 
themse.lves. Evening was at hand. The sun was fast waning 
fclong the mellow heights of heaven ; and my heart was begin- 


THE LAST WAGER. 


71 


ning to sink with the natural sense of loneliness which such a 
setting is apt to inspire in the bosom of the youthful wanderer. 
It was also a question with me, where I should find my pillow for 
the night. My host of the night before, arlow, dark- looking white 
squatter, either was, or professed to be, too ignorant to give me 
any information on this head, which would render the matter one 
of reasonable certainty. In this doubtful and somewhat desolate 
state of mind, I began to prick my steed forward at a more rapid 
pace, to cast my eyes up more frequently to the fading light 
among the tree-tops, and, occasionally, to send a furtive glance on 
either hand, not altogether assured that my road was as safe as it 
was lonely. The question “ where shall I find my bed to- 
night V 9 was beginning to be one of serious uncertainty, when I 
suddenly caught a glimpse of an opening on my right, a sort of 
wagon-path, avenue like, and which reminded me of those dear, 
dim passages in my own Carolina, which always promised the 
traveller a hot supper and happy conclusion to his wanderings of 
the day. Warmed with the notion, and without a farther doubt 
or thought, I wheeled my sorrel into the passage, and pressed him 
forward with a keener spur. A cheery blast of the horn ahead, 
and the dull heavy stroke of an axe immediately after, were so 
many urgent entreaties to proceed ; and now the bellow of a cow, 
and next the smoke above the cottage roof-trees, assured me that 
my apprehensions were at an end. In a few seconds I stood be- 
fore one of the snuggest little habitations which ever kindled 
hope and satisfied hunger. 

This was one of those small log-cabins which are common to 
the country. Beyond its snug, trim and tidy appearance, there 
was nothing about it to distinguish it from its class. The c lean- 
ing was small, just sufficient, perhaps, for a full supply of corn 
and provisions. But the area in front of the dwelling was clean- 
ly swept, and the trees wer^ trimmed, and those which had been 
left were evergreens, and so like favourite domestics, with such 
an air of grace, and good-nature, and venerableness about them, 
that one’s heart warmed to see them, as at sight of one of “ the 
old familiar faces.” The aspect of the dwelling within consisted 
happily with that without. Every thing was so neat, and snug, 
and comfortable 


76 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


The windows were sashed and glassed, and hung with the 
whitest curtains of cotton, with fringes fully a foot deep. The 
floors were neatly sanded, the hearth was freshly brightened with 
the red ochrous clay of the country, and chairs and tables, 
though made of the plainest stuffs, and by a very rude mechanic, 
were yet so clean, neat and well-arranged, that the eye involun- 
tarily surveyed them again and again with a very pleased sensa- 
tion. Nor was this all in the shape of unwonted comforts. Some 
other matters were considered in this cottage, which are scarcely 
even dreamed of in the great majority. In one corner of the 
hall stood a hat-stand ; in another there were pins for cloaks ; 
above the fire-place hung a formidable rifle, suspended upon 
tenter-hooks made of three monstrous antlers, probably those of 
gigantic bucks which had fallen beneath the weapon which they 
were now made to sustain. Directly under this instrument, ana 
the only object beside which had been honoured with a place so 
conspicuous, was a pack of ordinary playing cards — not hung or 
suspended against the wall, but nailed to it ; — driven through and 
through with a tenpenny nail, and so fastened to the solid log, the 
black head of the nail showing with particular prominence in 
contrast with the red spot of the ace hearts, through which i 
had been driven. Of this hereafter. JS this pack of cards 
hangs my story. It is enough, in this plant- o add, that it was 
only after supper was fairly over, that my eyes "re drawn to 
i his very unusual sort of chimney decoration. 

At the door of the cottage sat a very venerable old man. be- 
tween seventy and eighty. His hair was all white, but still thick, 
betraying the strength of his constitution and the excellence of 
his health. His skin was florid, glowing through his white beard, 
which might have been three days old,., and his face bore the bur- 
den of very few wrinkles. He had a lively, clear blue eye, ail’d 
good-humour played about his mouth in every movement of his 
lips. He was evidently one of those fortunate men, whose win- 
ters, if frosty, had always proved kindly. A strong man in his 
youth, he was now but little bent with years ; and when he stood 
up, I was quite ashamed to find he was rather more erect than 
myself, and quite as tall. This was the patriarch of the family, 
which consisted of three members besides himself. The first of 


THE LAST WAGER. 


77 


these was his only son, a man thirty-eight or forty years of age, 
of whom it will be quite explicit enough to say, that the old man, 
in his youth, must very nearly have resembled him. Then, there 
was the wife of the son, and her son, a lad now ten years old, a 
smart-looking lad enough, but in no wise resembling his male 
parent. Instead of the lively, twinkling blue eye of his father, he 
had the dark, deep, oriental sad ones of the mother ; and his 
cheeks were rather pale than rosy, rather thin than full ; and his 
hair was long, black and silky, in all respects the counterpart of 
his mother’s. A brief description of this lady may assist us in 
our effort to awaken the interest of the reader. 

Conducted into the house by the son, and warmly welcomed by 
the old man as well as himself, I was about to advance with the 
bold dashing self-possession of a young cavalier, confident in hi* 
course, and accustomed to win “ golden opinions of all sorts of 
people.” But my bold carriage and sanguine temper were sud- 
denly checked, not chilled, by the appearance of the lady in front 
of whom I suddenly stood. She sat beside the fireplace, and was 
so very different a looking person from any I had expected to see 
in such a region, that the usual audacity of my temperament was 
all at once abashed. In place of the good, cheerful, buxom, plain 
country house wife whom I looked to see, mending Jacky’s breech- 
es, or knitting the good-man’s hose, I found myself confronted by 
a dame whose aristocratic, high-bred, highly composed, easy and 
placid demeanour, utterly confounded me. Her person was 
small, her complexion darkly oriental, her eye flashing with all 
the spiritual fires of that region ; habitually bright and searching, 
even while the expression of her features would have made her 
seem utterly emotionless. Never did features, indeed, appear so 
thoroughly inflexible. Her beauty, — for she was all beauty, — was 
not, however, the result of any regularity of feature. Beauties of her 
order, brunette and piquant, are most usually wanting in precise- 
ness, and mutual dependance and sympathy of outline. They 
are beautiful h. 'pite of irregularity, and in consequence of the 
paramount exquiL eness of some particular feature. The charm 
of the face before me grew out of the piercing, deep-set, and singu- 
larly black eye, and the wonderful vitality about the lips. Never 
was mouth so small, or so admirably delineated. There was 


78 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


witchcraft enough in the web of it to make my own lips water. 
But I speak like the boy I was then, and am no longer. 

Let me not be understood to mean that there was any levity, 
any lightness of character betrayed in the expression of those lips. 
Very far otherwise. While soft, sweet, beautiful, and full of 
life, they were the most sacred and sad-looking forms,— drooping 
blossoms of beauty, mourning, as it would seem, because beauty 
does not imply immortality; and this expression led me to ob- 
serve more closely the character of the eye, the glance of which, 
at first, had only seemed to denote the brilliance of the diamond, 
shining through an atmosphere of jet. I now discerned that its 
intense blaze was not its only character. It Was marked with the 
weight of tears, that, freezing as they had birth, maintained their 
place in defiance of the light to which they were constantly ex- 
posed. It was the brightness of the ice palace, in the Northern 
Saga, which, in reflecting the bright glances of Balder, the God 
of Day, still gives defiance to the fervour of his beams. 

But a truce to these frigid comparisons, which suit any age 
but ours. Enough to say that the lady was of a rare and sin- 
gular beauty, with a character of face and feature not common 
to our country, and with a deportment seldom found in the homely 
cabin of the woodman or the squatter. The deep and unequivo- 
cal sadness which marked her looks, intense as it was, did not 
affect or impair the. heightened aristocratic dignity of her subdued 
and perfectly assured manner. To this manner did she seem to 
have been born ; and, being habitual, it is easy to understand that 
she could not be divested of it, except in- a very small degree, by 
the pressure of any form of affliction. You could see that there 
had been affliction, but its effect was simply to confirm that eleva- 
ted social tone, familiar to all mental superiority, which seems, 
however it may feel, to regard the confession of its griefs as per- 
haps something too merely human to be altogether becoming in a 
confessedly superior caste. Whether the stream was only frozen 
over, or most effectually crystallized, it does not suit our purpose 
to inquire. It is, at all events, beyond my present ability to de- 
termine the doubt. 

She was introduced to me, by the husband, as Mrs. Rayner. I 
afterwards discovered that her Christian name was Rache’ ; a 


THE LAST WAGER. 


79 


circumstance that tended to strengthen the impression in my mind 
that she might be of Jewish parents. That she was a Christian 
herself, I had reason to believe, from her joining freely and de- 
voutly, and on bended knee, in the devotions of the night. She 
spoke seldom, yet looked intelligence throughout the conversation, 
which was carried on freely between the old man, the husband, 
and myself. When she spoke, her words and accents were 
marked by the most singular propriety. There was nothing in 
her utterance to lessen the conviction that she was familiar with 
the most select circles of city life ; and I could see that the hus- 
band listened to her with a marked deference, and, though him- 
self, evidently, a rough honest backwoodsman, I detected him, in 
one or two instances, checking the rude phrase upon his lips, and 
substituting for it some other, more natural to the ear of civiliza- 
tion and society. There was a touching something in the meek- 
ness and quiet deportment of the boy who sat by life mother’s 
knee in silence, her fingers turning in his hair, while he dili- 
gently pored over some little trophy of juvenile literature, looking 
up timidly at moments, and smiling sadly, when he met the deep 
earnest £aze of the mother’s eyes, as she seemed to forget all 
around in the glance at the one object. I need not say that there 
was something in this family picture so entirely out of the com- 
mon run of my woodland experience in the Southwest, at that 
early day, that I felt my curiosity equally excited with my plea- 
sure. I felt assured that there was something of a story to be 
learned, which would amply recompense the listener. The old 
patriarch was himself a study — the husband a very noble speci- 
men of the sturdy, frank, elastic frontier-man — a race too often 
confounded with the miserable runagates by whom the first ex- 
plorations of the country are begun, but who seldom make the 
real axe-marks of the wilderness. You could see at a glance 
that he was just the man whom a friend could rely upon and a 
foe most fear — frank, ardent, firm, resolute in endurance, patient, 
perhaps, and slow to anger, as are all noble-minded persons who 
have a just confidence in their own strength ; but unyielding 
when the field is to be fought, and as cheerful in the moment 
of danger as he was good-humoured in that of peace. Every 
thing in his look, language and bearing, answered to this descrip. 


eo 


TIIE WIG VS \M AND THE CABIN. 


tion ; and I sat down at the supper table beside him that night, as 
familiar and as much at my ease as if we had jumped together 
from the first moment of existence. 

I pass over much of the conversation preceding, and at the 
evening repast ; for, though interesting enough at the time, par- 
ticularly to me, it would only delay us still longer in the approach 
to our story. It was after the table had been withdrawn, when 
he family were all snugly huddled about the fireplace, and the 
dialogue, which had been rather brisk before, had begun to flag, 
that I casually looked up over the chimney-place, and discover- 
ed, for the first time, the singular ornament of which I have al- 
ready spoken. Doubtful of what I saw, I rose to my feet, and 
grasped the object with my fingers. I fancied that some eccen- 
tric forest genius, choosing for his subject one of the great agents 
of popular pastime in the West, might have succeeded in a de- 
lineation sufficiently felicitous, as, at a short distance, to baffle 
any vision. But, palpable, the real — I had almost said, the liv- 
ing — things were there, unlike the dagger of Macbeth, as “ sensi- 
ble to feeling as to sight.” A complete pack of cards, none of 
the cleanest, driven through with a tenpenny nail, th? ace of 
hearts, as before said, being the top card, and very fairly cover- 
ing the retinue of its own and the three rival houses. The cor- 
ners of the cards were curled, and the ends smoked to partial 
blackness. They had evidently been in that situation for several 
years. I turned inquiringly to my hosts — 

“You have a very singular ornament for your mantleplaoe, 
Mr. Rayner;” was my natural remark, the expression of curios- 
ity in my face being coupled with an apologetic sort of smile. 
But it met with no answering smiles from any of the family. 
On the contrary, every face was grave to sadness, and in a mo- 
ment more Mrs. Rayner rose and left the room. As soon as she 
was gone, her husband remarked as follows: 

“Why, yes, sir, it is uncommon; but there’s a reason why 
it’s there, which I’ll explain to you after we’ve gone through pray- 
ers.” 

By this time the wife had returned, bringing with her the fami- 
ly Bible, which she now laid upon a stand beside the venerable 
elder. He, good old man, with an action that seemed to be per- 


THE LAST WAGER. 


Si 

fectly habitual, drew forth the spectacles from the sacred pages, 
where they seemed to have been left from the previous evening, 
and commenced reading the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, begin- 
ning, “ Hear me, your father, O children ! and do thereafter, that 
ye may be safe.” Then, this being read, we all sunk devoutly 
upon our knees, and the patriarch put up as sweet and fervent a 
prayer as I should ever wish to listen to. The conceited whip- 
ster of the school might have found his pronunciation vulgar, and 
his sentences sometimes deficient in grammatical nicety ; but the 
thought was there, and the heart , and the ears of perfect wisdom 
might well be satisfied with the good sense and the true morality 
of all that was spoken. We rose refreshed, and, after a lapse of 
a very few moments which were passed in silence, the wife, lead- 
ing the little boy by the hand, with a kind nod and courtes) took 
her leave, and retired to her chamber. Sweetness and dignity were 
most happily blended in her parting movements ; but I fancied, 
as I caught the glance of her eye, that there had been a fresh- 
ening and overflowing there of the deep and still gathering foun- 
tains. Her departure was followed by that of the old man, and 
the husband and myself were left alone. It was not long after 
this, before he, himself, without waiting for any suggestion of mine, 
brought up the subject of the cards, which had been so conspicu 
ously elevated into a mantel ornament. 


W THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Stranger,” said he, “ there is a sort of history in those cards 
which I am always happy to tell to any young man that’s a be- 
ginner in the world like yourself. I consider them as a sort of 
Bible, for, when I look at them and remember all that I know 
concerning them, I feel as if I was listening to some prime ser- 
mon, or may be, hearing just such a chapter as the old man read 
to us out of the good book to-night. It’s quite a long history, and 
I’ll put on a fresh handful of lightwood before I begin.” 

The interruption was brief, and soon overcome, and the narra- 
tive of the husband ran as follows : 

“ It is now,” said he, “going on to twelve years since the cir. 
cumstances took place which belong to the story of those cards, 
and I will Have to carry you back to that time before you can 
have a right knowledge of what I want to tell. I was then pretty 
much such a looking person as you now see me, for I haven’t 
undergone much change. I was a little sprightlier, perhaps — 
always famous for light-headedness and laughing — fond of fun 
and frolic, but never doing any thing out of mischief and bad hu- 
mour. The old man, my father, too, was pretty much the same. 
We lived here where you find us now, but not quite so snugly 
off — not so well settled — rather poor, I may say, though still with 
a plentiful supply to live on and keep warm and feel lively. 
There was only us two, and we had but two workers, a man and 
woman, and they had two children, who could do nothing for us 
and precious little for themselves. But we ' were snug, and 
worked steadily, and were comfortable. We didn’t make much 
money, but we always spent less than we made. We didn’t have 
very nice food, but we had no physic to take, and no doctor’s bills 
to pay. We had a great deal to make us happy, and still more 
to be thankful for; and I trust in God we were thankful for all 
of his blessings. I think we were, for he gave us other blessings 
ftnd for these, stranger, we are trying to be thankful also. 


THE LAST WAGER. 


83 


“ Well, as I was saying, about twelve years ago, one hot day 
m August, I rode out a little piece towards the river bluff to see 
if any goods had been left for us at the landing. We had heard 
the steamboat gun the night before, or something like it, and that, 
you know, is the signal to tell us when to look after our 'plunder. 
When I got there I found a lot of things, some for us, and some 
for other people. There was a bag of coffee, a keg of sugar, 
A hree sacks of salt, and a box of odds and ends for us. But the 
chaps on board the steamboat — which was gone — had thrown 
down the stuff any where, and some of the salt was half melted 
in a puddle of water. I turned in, and hauled it out of the wa- 
ter, and piled it up in a dry place. What was wet belonged 
chiefly to our neighbours, and the whole of it might have been 
lost if I had not got there in season. This kept me a good hour 
and as I had no help, and some of the sacks were large and hea- 
vy, I was pretty nigh tired out when the work was done. So 
took a rest of half an hour more in the shade. The heat wai 
powerful, and I had pretty nigh been caught by sleep — I don’ 
know but I did sleep, for in midsummer one’s not always sure ot 
himself in a drowsy moment — -when I was suddenly roused up 
by a noise most like^the halloo of a person in distress. I took the 
saddle on the spur, and went off in the quarter that the sound 
came from. It so happened that my route homeward lay the 
same way, and on the river road, the only public road in the set- 
tlement ; and I had only gone two hundred yards or thereabout, 
when, in turning an elbow of the path, I came plump upon a 
stranger, who happened to be the person whom I heard calling. 
He was most certainly in distress. His horse was flat upon his 
side, groaning powerfully, and the man was on his knees, rubbing 
the creature’s legs with a pretty hard hand. A little way behind 
him lay a dead rattlesnake, one of the largest I ever did see, 
counting twenty-one rattles besides the button ; and the sight of 
the snake told me the whole story. I jumped down to see what 
I could do in the way of help, but I soon discovered that the nag 
had the spasms, and was swelled up to her loins. I however cut 
into her leg with my knife, just where she was bitten, and when 
I had dug out the poisoned flesh, as much as I thought was rea- 
sonable, I got on my horse and rode back to the salt bags at full 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


84 

speed, and brought away a double handful of the salt. 1 rubbed 
it into the animal’s wound, I really believe, a few minutes after 
she had groaned her last and stiffened out, but I wasn’t rubbing 
very long. She vyas about the soonest killed of any creature 
that I ever saw snake bit before. 

“ It was only after I was done with the mare, that I got a fair 
look at her owner. He was a small and rather oldish mar., with 
a great stoop of the shoulders, with a thin face, glossy black 
hair, and eyes black too, but shining as bright, 1 reckon, as those 
of the rattlesnake he had killed. They had a most strange and 
troublesome brightness, that made me look at them whether 
I would or not. His face was very pale, and the wrinkles were 
deep, like so many seams, and, as I have said, he was what I 
would call a rather oldish man ; but still he was very nicely 
dressed, and wore a span-new velvet vest, a real English broad- 
cloth coat, gold watch with gold seals ; and every now and then 
he pulled out a snuff-box made like a horn, with a curl at the 
end of it, which was also set with a gold rim, and had a cap 
of the same precious stuff upon it. He was taking snuff every 
moment while I was doctoring his mare, and when the creature 
went dead, he offered it to me ; but I had al\%ays thought it work 
enough to feed my mouth, and had no notion of making another 
mouth of my nose, so I refused him civilly. 

“ He didn’t seem to be much worried by the death of his 
creature, and when I told him how sorry I was on his account, 
he answered quickly, 

“ 4 Oh ! no matter ; you have a good horse ; you will let me 
have him ; you look like a good fellow.’ 

“ I was a little surprised, you may reckon. I looked at the old 
man, and then at my creature. He was a good creature ; and 
as prime an animal as ever stepped in traces ; good at any thing, 
plough, wagon, or saddle ; as easy-going as a girl of sixteen, and 
r ot half so skittish. I had no notion of giving him up to a stran- 
ger, you may be sure, and didn’t half like the cool, easy, impu- 
dent manner with which the old man spoke to me. I had no 
fears — I didn’t think of his taking my nag from me by force — 
but, of a sudden, I almost begun to think he might be a wizard, 
fis we read in Scripture, and hear of from the old people, or 


THE LAST WAGER. 


bA 


mou’t be, the old devil himself, and then I did’nt well know what 
I had to expect. But he soon made the matter clear to me. Per- 
haps he saw that 1 was a little beflustered. 

“ ‘ Young man,’ says he, ‘ your horse is a fine one. Will you 
sell him ? 1 am willing to pay you a fair price — give you his 

fu?. value/ 

“ There was something to consider in that. When did you ever 
find a Western man unwilling for a horse-barter ? Besides, though 
the creature was a really first-rate nag, he was one more than I 
wanted. One for the plough, and one for the saddle — as the old 
mail didn’t ride often — was enough for us ; and we had three. 
But Rainbow — that was his name — was so sleek an animal ! He 
could a’most do any thing that you’d tell him. I did’nt want to 
sell him, but 1 didn’t want to keep a mouth too many. You know 
a horse that you don’t want begins by gnawing through your 
pockets, and ends by eating oft’ his own head. That’s the say, 
at least. But I raised Rainbow, fed him with my own hands, 
curried him night and morning myself, and looked upon him as a 
sort of younger brother. I hated powerful bad to part with him ; 
but then there was no reason to keep him when he was of no use. 
’Twas a satisfaction, to be sure, to have such a creature ; and 
’twas a pleasure to cross him, and streak it away, at a brushing 
canter, of a bright morning, for a good five miles at a stretch ; 
but poor people can’t afford such pleasures and satisfactions ; and 
when I thought of the new wagon that we wanted, and such a 
smart chance of other things about the farm, 1 looked at the old 
man and thought better of his offer. I said to him, though a little 
slowly, 

“ ‘ It’s a famous fine horse this, stranger. 

“ ‘ I know it,’ said he j ‘I never saw one that better pleased my 
N eyes. I’ll pay you a famous fine price for him.’ 

“ ‘ What’ll you give V said I. 

“‘Pshaw!’ said he, ‘speak out like a man. I’m no baby 
and you are old enough to know better. What’s your price V 

“ ‘ He’s low,’ said I, ‘at one hundred and seventy dollars.’ 

“ ‘ He is,’ said he, ‘ he’s worth more — will you take that V 
“ ‘ Yes/ 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN. 


Sf 


“‘You shall have it/ he answered, ‘and l’i) throw the dead 
horse into the bargain ; she was a famous fine animal too, in 
her day, and her skin’s worth stuffing as a keepsake. You can 
stuff it and put it up in your stables, as an example to your othei 
horses.’ 


THE LAST WAG Eie 


87 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ All the time he was talking, he was counting out the money, 
a Inch was almost all in gold. I was a little dub’ous that it 
wasn’t good money ; but I smelt it, and it had no smell of brass, 
and I was a leetle ashamed to let on that I didn’t know good 
money from bad ; besides, there was a something about the old 
gentleman so much like a gentleman, so easy, and so command- 
ing, that I couldn’t find the heart to doubt or to dispute any thing 
he said. And then, every thing about him looked like a gentle- 
man : his clothes, his hat, the watch he wore, the very dead 
horse and her coverings, saddle, bridle, and so forth, all con- 
vinced me that there was nothing of make-believe. 

“ ‘ There,’ said he, ‘ my good fellow,’ putting the money in my 
hand, ‘ I reckon you never handled so much gold in your life be- 
fore.’ 

“ £ No,’ said I, ‘ to tell you the tputh, though I’ve hearn a good 
deal of gold, and know it when 1 see it by what I’ve hearn, I 
never set eyes on a single piece till now.’ 

“ ‘ May it do your eyes good now, then,’ said he ; 1 you look 
like a good fellow. Your horse is sound V 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said I, ‘ I can answer better for him than I can for 
your gold.’ 

“ ‘ That’s good.’ 

“ ‘ Well V said I, ‘ I’m not sure that I’ve dealt fairly with you, 
stranger. I’ve asked you a little more than I’ve been asking other 
people. My price on Rainbow has been only one hundred and 
fifty dollars, before.’ 

“ ‘And your conscience troubles you. You are an honest fel- 
low,’ said he, ‘ but never mind, my lad, I’ll show you a way to 
relieve it.’ 

“ With these words he pulled out a buckskin roll from his 
pocket, and out of this he tumbled a pack of cards ; the very 
cards which you see nailed above my fireplace. 


THE A'IGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


fcS 

“ 1 We’ll play for that twenty dollars,’ said he, throwing down 
two gold pieces on the body of the dead mare, and beginning to 
shuffle the cards immediately. Somehow, I did as he did. J pul 
down two ten dollar pieces along with his. I couldn’t help my- 
self. He seemed to command me. I felt scared — I felt that I 
was doing wrong ; but he seemed to take every thing so much 
as a matter of course, that I hadn’t the courage to say ‘no’ tc 
any thing he did or said. 

“ £ What do you play V said he, and he named some twenty 
games of cards, some in French, 1 believe, and some in Spanish, 
but no one of which did I know any thing about. He seemed 
beflustered. 

“ ‘ Do you play any thing at all V he asked. 

“ * Yes — a little of old sledge — that’s all.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! that will do. A common game enough. I wonder 1 
should have omitted it. Here ! you may shuffle them, and we’ll 
cut for deal.’ 

“ I didn’t shuffle, but cut at once. He cut after me, and the 
deal fell to him. He took up and then put the cards down again 
• — put his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little silver box, 
about the size of a small snuff-box, — that had in it a good many 
little pills of a dark gray gummy look. One of these he swal- 
lowed, then began to deal, his eye growing brighter every mo- 
ment, and looking into mine till I felt quite dazzled and strange. 
Our table was the belly of the dead horse. He sat on one of the 
thighs. I knelt down upon the grass on the opposite side, and 
though it pained me, I couldn’t take my eyes from him to save 
my life. He asked me a great many questions while he was 
throwing out the cards — how old I was — what was my name — 
what family I had — how far I lived — where I came from — every 
thing, indeed, about me, and my way of life, and what I had and 
what I knew : — and all this in no time — as fast as I tell it to you. 
Then he said, 'You are an honest fellow, take up your cards, 
and let us see if you are as lucky as you are honest.’ It seemed 
as if I was, for 1 beat him. I played a pretty stiff game of old 
sledge , or as he called it, ‘ all fours >’ for I used to play, as long 
ns I could remember, with the old man, jny father, every night. 
Tld people like these plays, and it’s good for them to play. Il 


THE LAST WAGER. 


89 


keeps ’em lively, keeps them from sleeping too mush, and from 
drinking. It’s good for them, so long as it makes their own fire, 
side sweet to them. Well ! I was lucky. I won the game, and 
it worried me migntiiy when I did so. I didn’t touch the money 

“ ‘ I suppose,’ said the stranger, ‘ that I must cover those 
pieces,’ and before I could guess what he was about, he flung 
down four other gold pieces, making forty dollars, in the pile 
with mine, and began again shuffling the cards. If I was scared 
ard unhappy before, I was twice as much so now. I could 
scarcely breathe, and why, I can’t say exactly. It wasn’t from 
any anxiety about the winning or the losing, for I preferred not 
to have the stranger’s money : but it was his very indifference 
and unconcern that worried and distressed me. It seemed so 
unnatural, that 1 half the time thought that 1 was dealing with 
nothing human : and though I could shuffle, and cut, and play, 
yet it seemed to me as if I did it without altogether knowing 
why, or how. As luck would have it, I won the second time ; 
and the third time he pulled out his purse and put down as many 
more pieces as lay there. I looked at the growing heap with a 
heart that seemed ready to burst. There was eighty dollars be- 
fore me, and I felt my face grow red when I caught his eye look- 
ing steadily at mine. I began to feel sort o’ desperate, and flung 
about the cards like a person in liquor. The old man laughed, 
a low chuckle like, that made my blood crawl in my veins, half 
frozen, as it were. But, neither his skill and coolness, nor my 
fright, altered the luck at all. I again won, and trembled all over, 
to see the pile, and to see him take out his purse, and empty every 
thing upon it. 

“ ‘ Stranger,’ said I, * don’t think of it ; keep your money, and 
let me go home.’ 

“ ‘ Pshaw ! said he, ‘ you’re a good fellow, and as lucky as you 
are good. Why shouldn’t you be my heir ? I prefer that a good 
fellow should win my money if any body. It’ll do your sight 
good.’ 

“ ‘ But not my heart, I’m afraid,’ was my answer. 

“ ‘ That’s precisely as you use it,’ said he ; ‘ money’s a good 
creature, like every other good creature that* God gives us. It’s 
a good thing to be rich, for a rich man’s always able to do good. 


JO THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


when a poor man can only wish to do it. Get money, my iad, 
and he wise with it; wiser, I trust, than I have been. 5 

“ With these words, he took out his silver box, swallowed an- 
other of the pills, *and was busy dealing out the cards in another 
moment. I, somehow, was better pleased with him for what he 
said. The mention of God convinced me that he wasn’t the 
devil, and what he said seemed very sensible. But I didn’t feel 
any more right and happy than before. I only wanted the 
strength to refuse him. I couldn’t refuse him. I took up the 
cards as he threw them, and it did seem to me that 1 scarcely 
saw to make out the spots when I played them. I hardly knew 
how the game was played ; I didn’t count ; I couldn’t tell what 
I made. I only heard him say at the close of the second hand, 

“ ‘ The money’s yours. You are a lucky fellow.’ 

“ With these words he pushed the gold heap to me, and threw 
me the empty purse. 

“ 1 There’s something to put it in.’ 

“ ‘ No !’ said I ; ‘ no, stranger — I can’t take this money.’ 

“ ‘ Why, pray V 

“ ‘ It’s not right. It don’t seem to me to be got honestly. 1 
naven’t worked for it.’ 

“ 4 Worked, indeed! If nobody used money but those who 
worked for it, many a precious fellow would gnaw his finger ends 
for a dinner. Fut up your money !’ 

“ I pushed it to him, all but the two eagles which I begun 
with ; but he pushed it back. I got up without touching it. 
‘ Stay,’ said he, ‘ you are a good fellow ! Sit down again ; sit 
down.’ I sat down. ‘ I can’t take that money,’ said he, ‘ for it 
is yours. According to my way of thinking, it is yours — it is 
none of mine. There i& only one way in which it may become 
mine ; only one way in which I could take it or make use of it, 
and that is by winning it back. That may be done. I will put 
the horse against the gold.’ 





THE LAST WAGER. 


»] 


CHAPTER Y. 

My heart beat quicker than ever when he pointed to Rainbow. 
Not that I expected or wished to win him back, for I would only 
have taken him back by giving up all the money, or all ex- 
cept the hundred and fifty dollars ; but it now seemed to me as 
if I looked on the old man with such feelings as would have made 
me consent to almost any thing he wished. 1 had a strange sort 
of pity for him. I considered him a sort of kind-hearted, rich old 
madman. I said, ‘Very well ;’ and he took another pill out of 
his box, and begun again at the cards. 

“ * You are a very fortunate fellow,’ said he, ‘ and seem a very 
good one. I really see no reason why you should not be my heir. 
You say you are not married.’ 

“ ‘ No.’ 

“ ‘ But you have your sweetheart, I suppose. A lad of twen- 
ty-five, which I suppose is much about your age, is seldom with- 
out one.’ 

“ ‘ It’s not the case with me,’ said I. ‘ In these parts we have 
mighty few folks and fewer women, and I don’t know the girl 
among them that’s ever seemed to me exactly the one that I should 
be willing to make my wife.’ 

“ ‘ Why, you’re not conceited, I hope? You don’t think your- 
self too fine a fellow for a poor girl, do you ?’ 

“ ‘ No, by no means, stranger ; but there’s a sort of liking 
that one must have before he can think of a wife, and I haven’t 
seen the woman yet to touch me in the right way.’ 

“ ‘You are hard to please, and properly. Marriage is easier 
found than lost. A man is too noble an animal to be kept in a 
mouse-trap. But there are women ’ 

“ He stopped short. I waited for him to say something more, 
but by this time the cards had been distributed, and he was sort- 
ing his hand. 

“‘There are women!’ he said again, though as if he was 


J2 THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 

talking to himself. There he stopt for a minute, then looking 
up, and fixing his bright eyes upon mine, he continued : 

“ ‘ Come, Rayner,’ said he, good-humouredly. ‘ The cards are 
in your hands, and remember to play your best, for that famous 
fine horse may become your own again. I warn you, I have a 
goud hand. What do you do? 5 

“ ‘ Good or not, 5 said I, something more boldly, * I will s*and 
on mine. 5 

“I had a most excellent hand, being sure of hi^h and lovv, 
with a strong leading hand for game. 

“ ‘ Play then !’ he answered ; and at the word, I clapped down 
the ace of hearts, the very ace you see atop of the pack over the 
chimney now. 

“ « You are a lucky fellow, Rayner, 5 said he, as he flung down 
the Jack upon it, the only heart he held in his hand. The game 
ended ; I was owner of horse and money. But I jumped to mj 
feet instantly. 

“ ‘ Stranger, 5 said I, ‘don’t think I’m going to rob you of you: 
horse or money. I don’t exactly know why I played with you 
so long, unless it be because you insisted upon it, and I did’n 
wish to disoblige an old gentleman like yourself. Take your 
money, and give me my horse ; or, if you want the horse, leave 
me the hundred and fifty, which is a fair price for him, and put 
the rest in your ow T n pocket. I wont’t touch a copper more of it. 5 

“ ‘ You are a good fellow, Rayner, but, with some persons, 
younger and rasher persons than myself, your words would be 
answered with a bullet. Nay, were I the boy I have been, it would 
be dangerous for you to speak, even to me, in such a manner. 
Among gentlemen, the obligation to pay up what is lost by cards 
is sacred. The loser must deliver, and the winner must receive. 
There is your money, and that is your horse again ; but I am 
not yet done with you. As I said before, you are a good fellow, 
and most certainly a lucky one. I like you, though your prin- 
ciples are scarcely fixed yet — not certain ! Still, 1 like you ; 
and there’s some chance that you will be my heir yet. A few- 
more trials at the cards must determine that. I suppose you are 
not unwilling to give me a chance to win back my losses V 

“ I caught at the suggestion. 


THE LAST WAGER. 


93 


“ ‘ Surely not,’ I replied. 

Very good,’ says he. ‘Don’t suppose that, because you’ve 
emptied my purse, you’ve cleaned me out quite. I have a dia- 
mond ring and a diamond breastpin yet to stake. They are 
worth something more than your horse and your heap of money. 
We will place them against your eagles and horse.’ 

“ ‘ No !’ said I quickly. ‘ I’m willing to put down all the 
eagles, but not the horse ; or I’ll put down the horse and all the 
money, except the hundred and fifty.’ 

“ ‘ As you please,’ said he, ‘ but, my good fellow, you must 
take my word for the ring and breastpin. I do not carry them 
with me. I know it’s rather awkward to talk of playing a 
promised stake against one that we see, but I give you the hon- 
our of a gentleman that the diamonds shall be forthcoming if I 
lose.’ 

“ I began to think that what he said was only a sort of come- 
off — but I didn’t want his money, and was quite willing that he 
should win it back. If he had said, ‘ I’ll stake my toothpick 
against the money,’ I’d have been just as willing, for all that 1 
now aimed at was to secure my horse or the price of him. I 
felt very miserable at the thought of winning the man’s money 
— such a heap of it ! I had never played cards for money in all 
my life before, and there’s something in the feeling of winning 
money, for the first time, that’s almost like thieving. As I tell 
you, if he had said his toothpick, or any worthless thing, instead 
of his diamonds, I’d have been willing. I didn’t say so, however, 
and I thought his offer to stake diamonds that he couldn’t show, 
was pretty much like a come-off. But I was willing enough, for 
the money seemed to scald my eyes to look upon. He took out 
a pencil, the case of which I saw was gold also, and wrote on a 
slip of paper, ‘ Good for two brilliants, one a ring, the oth^r a 
breastpin, the latter in form of a Maltese cross, both set in gold, 
with an inner rim of silver, valued at seven hundred dollars.’ 
This was signed with two letters only, the initial's of his name. 
I have the paper now. He bade me read it, and when I did so, 
l thought him madder than a March hare ; but if I thought so 
then, I was more than ever convinced of it, when, a moment 
lifter, and when we were about to play, he spoke to this effect ; 


94 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CiVBIN. 


« ‘ There’s one thing, Rayner. There’s a little incumbranofe 
on these jewels.’ 

44 4 Well, sir,’ I said. 

“ I didn’t care a fig for the incumbrance, for I didn’t believe a 
word of the jewels. 

“ 4 If you win them, you win a woman along with them. You 
win a wife.’ • 

“ T laughed outright. 

“ 4 Don’t laugh,’ said he; ‘you don’t see me laugh. I’m se- 
rious ; never more so. You are unmarried. You need a wife. 
Don’t you want one ?’ 

44 4 Yes ! if I could get a good one — one to my liking.’ 

“ ‘ You are a good fellow. You deserve a good wife, Rayner ; 
and such is the very one I propose to give you.’ 

" 4 Ay, ay,’ said I ; 4 but will she be to my liking V 

44 4 I hope so ; I believe so. She has all the qualities which 
should command the liking of a sensible and worthy young man. 
She, too, is sensible ; she is intelligent ; she has knowledge ; she 
has read books ; she has accomplishments ; she sings like an an- 
gel ; plays on several instruments — piano and guitar !’ 

44 ‘ Piano and guitar !’ said I. 

44 I didn’t know what they were. I felt sure that the old fellow 
was mad, just out of a hospital, perhaps ; but then where did he 
get the money and the gold things ? I began to think more sus- 
piciously of him than ever. 

44 4 Yes, piano and guitar,’ said he; 4 she draws and paints too, 
the loveliest pictures — she can make these trees live on canvass ; 
ah ! can she not 1 Money has not been spared, Rayner, to make 
Rachel what she is.’ 

“ 4 Rachel — is that her name V I asked. 

“ ‘ Yes, it is.’ 

“ 4 What’s the other name V 

“ 4 You shall know,, if you win the diamonds.’ 

44 4 Yes — but how old is she ? how does she look ? is she young 
and handsome ? I wouldn’t want an ugly wife because she hap. 
pened to be wise. I’ve heard that your wise women are gener- 
ally too ugly for any thing else than wisdom.’ 

44 4 You are a fool, Rayner, though a good fellow. But Rachel 


THE LASi WAGER. 


95 


is beautiful and young — not n ore than seventeen — tno^ioper age 
for you. You, I think you say, are twenty-eight. In this cli- 
mate a man’s wife should always be ten or twelve years younger 
than himself — provided lie be a sober and healthy man, and if he be 
not, he has no business with a wife, nor a wife with him. You 
are both sober and healthy. You are a good fellow — I see that. I 
like you, Rayner, and for this reason I am willing to risk Rachel on 
the cards, playing against you. My loss will probably be her gain, 
and this makes me rather regardless how it ends. You shall be 
my heir yet.’ 

“ ‘ Thank you, old gentleman,’ said I, beginning to feel a little 
bold and saucy, for I now couldn’t help thinking that the stranger 
was no better than a good-natured madman who had got away 
from his friends. * Thank you,’ said I. ‘If Rachel’s the girl you 
make her out to be, you can’t bring her along a day too soon. 
But, may I ask, is she your daughter V 

“ ‘ My daughter !’ he answered sharply, and with something of 
a frown orchis face, ‘ do I look like a man to have children ? — to 
be favoured with such a blessing as a daughter ? — a daughter like 
Rachel V 

“ ‘ Now,’ said I to myself, ‘ his fit’s coming on,’ and I began to 
look about me for a start. 

“ ‘ No, Rayner,’ he continued, 1 she is no daughter of mine, 
but she is the daughter of a good man and of honourable parents. 
You shall have sufficient proof of that. Have you any more 
questions ?’ # 

“ ‘ No, sir.’ 

“ ‘ And you will take Rachel as your wife ? You have heard 
my description of her. If she comes up to it, I ask you, will you 
be willing to take her as your wife V 

“ I looked at him queerly enough, I reckon. He fixed hi? 
keen black eyes upon me, so that I couldn’t look on him without 
shutting my own. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to run. 
But, thinking that he was flighty in the upper story, I concluded 
it was best to make a short business of it, and to agree with any 
thing that he wished ; so I told him freely ‘ yes,’ and he reached 
out his hand to mine, which he squeezed nervously for a minute, 
and then took out his box of pills, swallowed a couple of them, 


96 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


and began dealing out the cards. I had the strangest luck — the 
same sort of luck that had kept with me from the start. I won 
the diamonds and won Rachel ! 

“ 4 Well,’ said he, ‘ I’m glad, Rayner, that you are the man- 
I’ve been long looking for an heir to my diamonds. They are 
yours — all is yours ; and I shall have to be indebted to you for 
the loan of the horse, in order to go and bring you your wife.’ 

“ c Ay,’ said I, ‘ stranger, the horse is at your service, and half 
of the money too. I never thought to take them from you at the 
first ; I shouldn’t have felt easy in my conscience to have used 
the money that I got in this way.’ 

“ ‘ Pshaw !’ said he, gathering up the cards, and wrapping 
them in the buckskin wallet from which he had taken them. 
‘ Pshaw, you are a fool. I’ll borrow your horse, and a few pie- 
ces to pay my way.’ 

“ ‘ Help yourself to the rest,’ said I, taking, as I spoke, fifteen 
of the eagles to myself, and leaving the rest on the dead body of 
the horse, where they had been growing from our first •commen- 
cing to play. 

“ ‘ You are my heir,’ he answered, 1 and behave yourself as 
you should. Between persons so related there should be no pal- 
try money scruples ;’ and, while he said these words, he stooped 
to take the money. I turned away that he shouldn’t suppose 1 
watched him, but I couldn’t help laughing at the strange sort of 
cunning which he showed in his conceit. Says I to myself, ‘ You 
will take precious good care, old fellow, I see that, that I carry 
off no more than my own poor hundred and fifty.’ But he was 
too quick in mounting and riding off to give me much time to 
think about it or to change in my disposition. It was only after 
he was off, out of sight, and in a full gallop, that, looking round 
upon the dead horse, I saw the eagles still there, nearly all of them, 
just as 1 had heaped them up. He had only taken two of them, 
just enough, as he said, to bear his necessary expenses. 

“I was a little surprised, and was now more sure than eve? 
that the stranger had lost his wits. I gathered up the money, and 
walked home, mighty slowly, thinking all the way of what had 
taken place. It seemed more like a strange dream than any thing 
else. Was there any man ? Had I played old sledge with a 


THE LAST WAGER. 


tn 

stranger? ] was almost inclined to doubt; but there was the 
dead horse. I went back to look at it, and when I thrust my 
hand down into my breeches pocket, I brought it up full of the 
precious metal ; but was it precious metal ? I began to tremble 
at this thought. It might be nothing better than brass or copper, 
and my horse was gone — gone off* at a smart canter. My heart 
o-rew chilled within me at this reflection. I felt wild — scared 
half out of my wits, and instead of regarding the old man as a 
witless person escaped from his keepers, I now began to considej 
him a cunning sharper, who had found one more witless than ' 
had fancied him. 


8 


Q8 


THE W T OVVAM AM) THF. CABIN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Hut such reflections, even if well founded, came too late fot 
remedy. The old man was gone beyond present reach, and 
when I reflected that, he had taken two of the gold pieces for his 
own expenses, I began to feel a little reassured on the subject of 
their value. When I .got home, I told my father of the sale of 
the horse, and the price, though I took precious good care to say 
nothing of the gambling. The old man, though he himself had 
taught me to play cards, was mighty strict against all play for - 
money. I showed him only the fifteen pieces that I got for Rain- 
bow, and the rest I put away quietly, meaning to spend them by 
degrees upon the farm, as chances offered, so as to prevent him 
from ever getting at the real truth. I felt myself pretty safe with 
regard to the strange gentleman. I never counted on his coining 
back to blow me, though, sometimes, when I wasn’t thinking, an 
odd sort of fear would come over me, and I would feel myself 
trembling with the notion that, after all, he might return. I had 
heard of rich people having strange ways of throwing away their 
mone^s^and taking a liking for poor people like myself ; and then, 
there was a serious earnest about the strange gentleman, in spite 
of all his curiousnesses, that made me a little apprehensive, when- 
ever the recollection of him came into my head. 

“ But regular work, day after day, is the best physic for mind 
and body ; and, after three days had gone by, I almost ceased to 
bother myself with the affair. I passed the time so actively that 
I didn’t think much about any thing. I took a trip down the 
river, some eighteen miles, to a wheelwright’s, and bought a prime 
two-horse wagon, for ninety-five dollars, which made a considera- - 
ble hole in the price of Rainbow' ; and, one thing with another, 
the w ; eek went by almost without giving me time to count if the 
right number of days was in it. Sunday followed, and then 
Monday. That Monday I w'as precious busy. I was alw'ays an 
inlustrious man — doing something or other — making this, o* 


THE LAST WAGER. 


99 


mending that. To be doing nothing was always the hardest work 
for me. But that Monday I out- worked myself, and I was really 
glad when I saw the sun sink suddenly down behind the woods. 
I threw down the broad-axe, for I had been hewing out some 
door-facings for a new corn-crib and fodder-house, and went 
towards the gallery (piazza) where the old man' was sitting, and 
threw myself, at full-length, along the entrance, just at his feet. 
I was mighty tired. My jaoket was off, my sleeves rolled up, 
my neck open, and the perspiration standing thick on my" breast 
and forehead. At that very moment, while I was lying in this 
condition, who should I see ride into the opening, but the strange 
old gentleman. I knew him at a glance, and my heart jumped 
up into my mouth as if it was trying to get out of it. Behind 
him came another person riding upon a pretty little bay filly. 
Though it was darkening fast, l could make out that this other 
person was a woman, and I never felt so scared in all my life. 1 
looked up at my father, and he at me. He saw that 1 was fright- 
ened, but he hadn’t time to ask me a question, and 1 shouldn’t 
have had the strength to answer if he had L T p rode the strange 
old gentleman, and close behind him came the lady. Though I 
was mightily frightened, I looked curiously at her. I could make 
out that she was a small and delicate-framed person, but her face 
was covered with a thick veil. I could see that she carried 
herself well, sat her horse upright like a sort of queen, and when 
the old man offered to take her off, yielded herself to hif> with a 
slow but graceful stateliness, not unlike that of a young cedar 
bending to the wind. 

“ For my part, though I could see this, I was never more con- 
founded in my life. I was completely horror-struck. To see the 
old gentleman again was a shocking surprise ; but that he should 
really bring the lady that I had won, and that she should catch 
•me in that condition, — my coat off, my breast open, my face 
-covered with dust and perspiration ! If the work made me sweat 
before, this surprise increased it. I got up, and made out to get 
a few steps towards the strangers. I said something by way of 
apology for being caught in that shabby fix j but the old gentle- 
man stopped me. 

“ < Never mind, no apologies, Mr. Rayner. The proofs of 


100 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


labour are always honourable, and if the heart can show that i 
works as well as the body, then the labourer is a gentleman. 
How are you, and — this is your father V 

“ I introduced him to the old man as the person who had bought 
Rainbow, and we conducted them into the house. 

“ ‘ My ward, Mr. Rayner,’ said the stranger, when we had 
entered, ‘this is the young friend of whom I spoke to you.’ 

“ At these words the young lady threw up her veil. I stag- 
gered back at the sight. I won’t talk of her beauty, my friend, 
for two reasons ; one of which is, that 1 haven’t got words to 
say what I thought and felt — what I think and feel now. The 
other — but I needn’t speak of the other reason. This one is 
sufficient. The old gentleman looked at me inquiringly, and 
then he looked at my father. I could see that there was a little 
doubt and anxiety upon his face, but they soon passed away as he 
examined the face of my father. There was something so good, 
so meek, so benevolent about the looks of the old man, that 
cobody could mistrust that all was right in the bottom of his heart. 
A.s for my heart, the strange gentleman seemed to see into it quite 
as quickly as into that of my father. Fie was not so blunt and 
abrupt now in his manner of speaking to me as he had been when 
we first met. His manner was more dignified and reserved. 
There was something very lofty and noble about it, and in speak- 
ing to the lady his voice sunk almost into a whisper. 

“ ‘ Pdr. Rayner, H said he, looking to my father, ‘ I trust that 
you will give my ward a chamber for the night. I have heard 
of you, sir, and have made bold to presume on your known be- 
nevolence of character in making this application.’ 

“ ‘ Our home is a poor one, stranger,’ said the old man ; ‘ but 
such as it is, it is quite at the service cf the young lady.’ 

“ ‘ Good !’ said the other ; ‘ you are the man after my own 
hear.. I am known,’ he continued, ‘ where men speak of me at 
all, as Mr. Eckhardt. My ward is the daughter of a very near 
and dear friend. Her name is Flerder — Rachel Herder. So 
much is necessary for convenience in conversation ; and now, sir, 
if you can tell Rachel where she is to find her chamber, so that 
she may arrange her dress, and get rid of the dust of travel, she 
will be very much obliged to you.’ 


THE LAST WAGER 


101 


** All this was soon arranged and attended to, and wnile the 
lady disappeared in our best chamber, Mr. Eckhardt proceeded 
to disburthen the horses, on both of which were saddle-bags that 
were stuffed almost to bursting. These were brought into the 
house, and sent to the chamber after the lady. Then the stran- 
ger sat down with my father, the two old men chatting quite 
briskly together, while I stripped the horses of their saddles, and 
took them to the stable. When I returned to the house I found 
them as free-spoken and good-humoured as if they had been inti 
mate from the first day of clearing in that country. 


102 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ You may suppose what my confusion must have been, for I 
can’t describe it to you. I can only say that I felt pretty much 
like a drunken man. Every thing swum around me. I was 
certain of nothing ; didn’t know what to believe, and half the 
time really doubted whether I was asleep or awake. But there 
were the horses — there was Rainbow. I couldn’t mistake him, 
and if I had, he didn’t mistake me. When he heard my voice as 
I led him to the stable, he whinnied with a sort of joy, and prick- 
ed up his ears, and showed his feeling as plainly as if he had a 
human voice to speak it in words. And I reckon, too, it was a 
more true feeling than many of those that are spoken in words. 
I threw my arms round the good creature’s neck, and if it hadn’t 
been for thinking of Rachel Herder, I reckon I should have kissed 
him, too, it did me so much good to see him again. But I hadn’t 
much time for this sort of fondness, and when I remembered the 
whole affair between the strange old gentleman, Mr. Eckhardt, 
and myself, I was too much worried to think any more of Rainbow. 
I couldn’t bring myself to believe it true about the diamonds and 
the wife ; and.*when I remembered the sight that I had caught, 
though a glimpse only, and for a single moment, of the great 
beauty of the young lady, I couldn’t help thinking that the stran- 
ger was only making merry with me — running his rigs upon a 
poor, rough, backwoodsman. But this notion roused up my pride 
and feeling. { Not so rough,’ says I to myself ; ‘ poor it may be, 
but not mean ; not more rough than honest labour makes a man. 
And poor as you please, and rough as you please, when the 
heart’s right, and the head’s no fool’s head, the man’s man 
enough for any woman, though she walks in satin !’ With this I 
considered that I ought, at least, to make myself rather decent 
before I sat down to supper. My cheeks burned me when I 
looked at myself and remembered how she had caught me. 1 
knew that good soft spring water, and my best suit, would turrt 


THE LAST WAGER. 


103 


me into quite another sort of looking man ; but here again was 
difficulty. It was my chamber which my father had given up to 
the young lady, and all my clothes were in it. My new coat 
and blue pantaloons hung upon pegs behind the door ; and all my 
shirts were in an old chest of drawers on which the looking-glass 
stood ; and to get these things without her seeing was impossible. 
But it had to be done ; so I called up the old negro woman ser- 
vant we had, and told her what to do, and sent her for the clothes, 
while I waited for them at the back of the house. When she 
brought them, I hurried down to the branch (brooklet) and made 
a rapid and plentiful use of the waters. I then got in among the 
bushes, and made a thorough change in my dress, taking care to 
hide the old clothes in the hollow of a gum. I combed my hair 
smoothly over the branch, which answered me at the same time 
for a looking-glass, and had the effect of making me much more 
satisfied with my personal appearance. I needn’t blush, my 
friend, at my time of life, to say that I thought myself then, and 
was, a tolerable comely fellow ; and I couldn’t help feeling a 
sneaking secret notion that the young lady would think so too. 
Well, I got in time enough for supper. Mr. Eckhardt looked at 
me, as I thought, with real satisfaction. He and my father had 
been keeping company all the time I was gone, and I could see, 
among other things, that they were mightily pleased with one an- 
other. By and by, supper was brought in, and Rachel Herder 
came out of her chamber. If I thought her beautiful before, J 
thought her now ten times more so. Once I caught her eyes fix- 
ed upon me, but she turned them away without any flurry or 
confusion, and I don’t think that I saw her look at me in particu- 
lar once again that night. This worried me, I confess. It seem- 
ed to show that she wasn’t thinking of me ; and, moreover, it 
seemed to show that Mr. Eckhardt hadn’t said a word to her 
about the business ; and this made me more ready to believe that 
he had only been running his rigs upon me. Yet there was 
something about his looks and in his words, whenever he spoke to 
me — rsomething so real, serious, earnest, that I couldn’t help Re- 
lieving, after all, that the affair wasn’t altogether over. Nor was 
it, as you will see directly. 

“Supper went forward. You know what a country supper is, 


104 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


out here in Mississippi, so it don’t need to tell you that cornbread* 
and a little eggs and bacon, and a smart bowl of milk, was pretty 
much the amount of it. The young lady ate precious little ; 
took a little milk, I believe, and a corn biscuit. As for me, 
I’m very sure I ate still less. My heart was too much in my 
mouth to suffer me to put in any thing more ; for, whichever 
way I thought of the matter, I was worried half to death. If 
the old gentleman was serious, it was still a mighty terrifying 
thing to have a wife so suddenly forced upon a body, — a wife 
that you never saw before and didn’t know any thing about ; and 
if he wasn’t serious, it was very hard to lose so lovely a creature, 
]ust too after your heart had been tantalized and tempted b^ 
the promise that she was all for yourself. As I tell you, mjr 
friend, whichever way I could think of it, I was still worried 
half to’death. 

“ After supper, Mr. Eckhardt asked me to walk out with him; 
so, leaving the young lady with my father, — who, by the way, had 
already grown mightily pleased with her, — off we went into the 
woods. We hadn’t gone very far when the old gentleman spoke, 
pretty abruptly : 

“ ‘ Well, Rayner, my lad, you’ve seen the lady whom I intend 
as your wife. Does she suit you V 

“ * Why, sir, you’re rather quick. I can answer for her beau- 
ty : she’s about the beautifullest creature I ever did see, but it’s 
not beauty altogether that makes a good wife, and I ha’n’t had 
time yet to judge whether she’ll suit me.’ 

“ ‘ How much time do you want V said he shortly. 

“ * Well, I can’t say.’ 

“ ‘ Will a week or ten days answer?’ 

“ £ That’s as it happens,’ said I. 1 Some men you can under- 
stand in an hour, just as if you had been with ’em all your life. 
I’m pretty much such a person myself. — but with some you can’t 
get on so rapidly. You’ll be with them a year, and know just 
as little of their hearts at the end of it, as you did at the beginning.’ 

£< £ Humph ! and whose fault will that be but your own ? There’s 
an eye to see, Rayner, as well as a thing to be seen. It depends 
very much upon the seeker whether he shall ever find. But 
enough. There’s no need in this case for much philosophy. 


THE LAST WAGER. 


tr5 

You are easily read, and so is Rachel. A weec will answer tc 
make you both acquainted, and I’ll leave her with you for that 
time.’ 

“ ‘ But are you serious V I asked. 

“ 4 Serious ! But your question is natural. I am a man of 
few words, Rayner. Y ou see something in my proceedings which 
is extraordinary. As the world goes, and acts, and thinks, per- 
haps it is ; but nothing was ever more deliberate or well advised, 
on my part, than this proceeding. Hear me, lad ! this lady is a 
ward of mine ; the daughter of a very dear friend, who gave her 
to my trust. I swore to do by her as a father. I am anxious to 
do so ; but I am an old man, not long for this world, — an erring 
man, not always sure of doing right while I am in it. I wish to 
find the child a protector, — a good man, — a kind man, — a man 
whom I can trust. This has been my desire for some time. I 
fancy I have found in you the very person I seek. I am a man 
to look keenly, judge quickly, and act in the same manner. As 
you yourself have remarked, you are a person easily understood. 
r understood you in a little time, and was pleased with what I saw 
‘pf you. I have chosen you out as the husband of Rachel. She 
knows nothing yet of my purpose. You, I see, have kept your 
father in partial ignorance of our adventure. Perhaps you were 
right in this case, though, as a general rule, such secrecy between 
two persons placed as you are would have been an error. Well, 
Rachel shall stay with you a week. I know her so well that I 
fancy you will in that time become intimate and remain pleased 
with each other — sufficiently pleased to make the rest easy.’ 

44 The^p was some more talk between us, as we went toward the 
nouse, but this was the substantial part of what was said. Once 
I made some remark on the strangeness of such a preference 
shown ta me, when in the great cities he might have found so 
many young men better suited by education for a young lady 
whom he represented to be so accomplished ; but he had his an- 
swer for this also ; and so quickly uttered, and with such a com- 
manding manner, that, even if I had not been satisfied* I should 
still have been silenced. 

4 ' 4 Your remark is natural. Half the world, having such a 
child to dispose of, would have gone to the great city, and have 


lot 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


preferred a fashionable husband. But I know her heart. It is 
her heart, and not her accomplishments, that I wish to provide for. 
I want a man, not a dandy, — a frank, noble-hearted citizen, how- 
ever plain, not a selfish, sophisticated calculator, who looks for a 
wife through the stock market. Enough, my good fellow ; no 
more words.’ 


THE LAST WAGER. 


1OT 


CHAPTER VIII. 

" That very night Mr. Eckhardt contrived, £ fter the young 
lady had gone to bed, to let my father know that he would be 
pleased if his ward could be suffered to remain in his family for a 
few days, until he should cross the river, in order to look after a 
man on the west of the Misssisippi, who owed him money. He 
was unwilling to carry her with him into so very wild a region. 
He made every thing appear so natural to the old man, that he 
consented out of hand, just as if it had been the most reasonable 
arrangement’ in the world ; and it was only after Mr. Eckhardt 
had set out, — which he did by daylight the next morning, — that 
my father said to me : 

“ 1 It’s very strange, William, now I come to think of it, that 
Mr. Eckhardt should leave the young lady in a family where 
there’s none but men.’ 

“ ‘ But she’s just as safe here, father,’ said I, ‘ as if she had fifty 
of her own sex about her.’ 

“ ‘ That’s true enough, William,’ said the old man, 1 and if the 
child feels herself at home, why there’s nothing amiss. I’m 
thinking she’s about the sweetest-looking creature I ever laid 
eyes on.’ 

“ I thought so too, but I said nothing, and followed the old man 
into the house, with my feelings getting more and more strange 
and worrisome at every moment. I was in the greatest whirl of 
expectation — my cheeks a-burning, — my heart as cold as ice, and 
leaping up and down, just as scarily as a rabbit’s when he’s find- 
ing his way through the paling into a garden patch. I felt as if 
the business now upon my hands was about the most serious and 
trying I had ever undertaken ; and it took all my thinking, I tell 
you, to bring my courage to the right pitch, so as to steady my 
eyes while I spoke to the young lady as she came out to the 
breakfast-table. My father had a message to her from Mr. Eck- 
hardt, telling her of his absence ; and though she looked a little 


108 


THE WIGWAM ANt> THE CABIN. 


anxious when she heard that he was already gone, she soon seem* 
ed 1 0 become quiet and at ease in her situation. Indeed, for that 
matter, she was the most resigned and easy person I ever met in 
my life. She seemed quite too gentle ever to complain, and 1 
may say now, with some certainty, that, whatever might be her 
hurts of mind or body, she was the most patient to submit, and 
the most easy to be pacified, of all human beings. 

“ Now, if you know any thing of a man of my description, if 
you’re any thing of a judge of human nature, you’ll readily un- 
derstand that, if I was scary and bashful at first, in meeting with 
a young and beautiful creature like her, and knowing what I did 
know of what was before me, it didn’t take very long for the fright 
to wear off. The man whose feelings are very quick, gets might- 
ily confused at first, but give him time, don’t hurry him, and he’ll 
come to his senses pretty soon, and they’ll come to him, and they’ll 
be the sharper and the more steady, from the scare they had at first 
— you can’t scare them in the same manner a second time. Be- 
fore that day was well out, I could sit down and talk with Rachel, 
and hear her talk, without growing blind, dumb, and deaf in an 
instant. Her mildness gave me encouragement, and when I got 
used to the sound of my own voice, just after hers, I then found 
out, not only that I had a good deal to say, but that she listened 
very patiently, and I think was pleased to hear it. I found her 
so mild, so kind, and encouraging, she seemed to take so much 
interest in every thing she saw, that I was for showing her every 
thing. Our cows, the little dairy, the new wagon, even to 
the fields of corn, cotton, and potatoes, were all subjects of exam- 
ination one after the other. Then, I could carry her along the 
hill slopes, through as pretty a grove, too, as you would wish to 
lay eyes on ; and down along just such another, even to the river 
banks ; and we had odd things enough to show, here and there, to 
keep up the spirits and have something to talk about. These 
rambles we’d take either in the cool of the morning, or towards 
sunset in the afternoon ; and, sometimes the old man would go 
along with us — but, as he couldn’t go very far at one time, we 
had pretty much the whole chance to ourselves ; and what witn 
talking and walking with Rachel, and thinking about her when I 
wasn’t with her, I did precious little work that week. To short 


THE LAST WAGER. 


ton 

en a long story, my friend, I now began to think that there was 
nothing wrong in my gambling with Mr. Eckhardt, and to agree 
in his notion that the loser was always bound to pay, and the win- 
ner to receive. Before he got back, which he did not until 
ten days were fully over, I had pretty much concluded that I 
should find it the most trying business in nature to have to give up 
my winnings. I don’t mean the diamonds ; for them I had not 
seen, and hadn’t cared to see ; but I mean the incumbrance that 
came with them, which, by this time, was more than all the gold 
or diamonds, in my sight, that the whole world could show. 


110 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ I was now as anxious to see Mr. Eckhardt as I had befor 
been afraid of his coming. He overstayed his time a little, being 
nearer two weeks gone than one. He was a keen-sighted man. 
His first words, when we were again alone together, were, ‘ Well, 
all’s right on your part, Rayner. You are a good fellow — I see 
that you will be my heir. You find that what I said of Rachel 
is true ; and nothing now remains but to see what she will say. 
Have you been much together V 

“ ‘ Pretty often. I reckon I’ve done little else than look after 
her since you’ve been gone.’ 

“ ‘ What ! you hav’n’t neglected your business, Rayner V 
said he, with a smile — ‘ the cows, the horses V 
“ ‘ They’ve had a sort of liberty,’ says I. 

“ ‘ Bad signs for farming, however good for loving. You mus* 
change your habits when you are married.’ 

“ ‘ Ah f that’s not yet,’ said I, with a sigh. ‘ I’m dub’ous, Mr 
Eckhardt, that Miss Rachel won’t fancy me so soon as I do her !' 

“ He looked a little anxious, and didn’t answer so quickly a* 
usual, and my heart felt as heavy then as if it was borne down 
by a thousand pounds of lead. It wasn’t much lightened when 
he answered, with a sort of doubting, — 

“ ‘ Rachel,’ said he, ‘ has always heeded my counsel. She 
knows my love for her — she has every confidence in my judg- 
ment. You, Rayner, have some of those advantages which 
young women are apt to admire. You are well made, youthful, 
manly, and with a masculine grace and beauty which you owe 
to the hunter life. These are qualities to recommend the young 
of one sex to the young of the other. You have something more. 
You are a sensible youth, with a native delicacy of feeling which, 
more than any thing beside, will be apt to strike Rachel. It 
struck me. I will not presume to say that you have won either 
her eye or her heart — the eye of a woman is easy won at all 


THE LAST WAGER. 


Ill 


times, the heart slowly. Perhaps it may be safe to w \ v, at hearts 
are not often won till after marriage. But., at all e~ents, with 
your personal claims, which I think considerable, and the docility 
of Rachel, I have hopes that I can bring about ar arrangement 
which, I confess to you, I regard as greatly important to my 
future purposes. We shall see.’ 

“ At that moment I was quite too full of Rachel and my own 
hopes, to consider the force of the remark which he last made. 
1 never troubled myself to ask what his purposes might be, be- 
yond the single one which we both had in view. When Mr. 
Eckhardt met with Rachel, and, indeed, while he spoke with me, 
I could observe that there was a gravity, like sadness, in his voice 
and manner, which was not usua) with him, or at least had not 
shown itself in o-ur previous meetings. He hesitated more fre- 
quently in what he had to say. His eye was less settled, though 
even brighter than before ; and I noted the fact that he took his 
pills three times as frequently as ever. Even when he spoke 
with a show of jesting or playfulness, I noted that there was a 
real sadness in what he looked, and even something of sadness 
in what he said, or in his manner of saying it. Nothing but. this 
seriousness of look and manner kept me from thinking that he 
was playing upon my backwoods ignorance, when he was speak- 
ing my own good name and good qualities to my teeth. But 
when I doubted and began to suspicion that he was running rigs 
upon me, I had only to look into his face and see that he was 
talking in the way of downright, matter-of-fact business. 

“ When he came, Rachel went to him and put her hand in his, 
but she didn’t speak. Nor did he at first. He only bent down 
and kissed her forehead ; and so he stood awhile, holding her 
hand in his, and talking to my fhther. It was a sight to see them 
two. I couldn’t stand it. There was something in it, I can’t 
tell you what, that looked so sadful. I went out and wiped the 
water from my eyes. It seemed to me then, as if the old gentle- 
man was meditating something very distressing, and as if poor 
Rachel was half dub’ous of it herself. After a little while, my 
father came out and joined me, and we walked off together to the 
stable. - 

•< 4 William,’ says the old man, ‘ these are strange people 


112 # THE WIGWAM ANI) THE CABIN 

The; seem very sweet, good people ; at least the girl seems very 
good, aod is a very sweet girl ; but there’s something very 
strange and very sorrowful about them.’ 

“ I couldn’t say any thing, for my heart was very full, ana 
the old man went forward. 

“ ‘ Now, what’s more strange than for him to leave her here 
with us ? though, to be sure, we wouldn’t see her harmed even 
to the falling of a hair of her head — and I can answer for you, 
Bill, as I can for myself; but it’s not every body that will say 
lor us what we might feel for ourselves, and precious few fathers 
would leave an only daughter here, in strange woods, with such 
perfect strangers.’ 

“ ‘ But she’s not his daughter,’ said I. 

“ ‘ Tt don’t matter. It’s very clear that he loves her as if she 
was his daughter, and I reckon she’s never known any other 
father. Poor girl ! — I’m sure I like her already so much that I 
wish he’d leave her here altogether.’ 

“ These last words of my father seemed to untie my tongue, 
find I up and told him every syllable of what had taken place 
Detween me and Mr. Eckhardt, from my first meeting with him 
.he day when I went to the river landing, up to the very moment 
when we were talking. I didn’t hide any thing, but told the 
whole story of the cards, the gold, and the diamonds; and ended 
by letting him know that if he should be so sorry to lose Rachel, 
now that we both knew so much about her, it would go a mighty 
deal harder with me. I told him all that Mr. Eckhardt had said 
since his return, and what hopes I had that all would go as he 
wished it. But the old man shook his head. He didn’t like what 
he heard about Mr. Eckhardt’s gambling, and was very tight 
upon me for letting myself be tempted to deal with him in the 
same business. Pie didn’t think the worse of Rachel, of course, 
but he looked upon it as a sort of misfortune to be in any way 
connected with a gambler. 

“ We hadn’t much longer time for confabulating, for Mi. 
Eckhardt now came from the house and joined us. He was a 
man who always came jump to the business, whatever it was, 
that he had in hand. But he wasn’t a rough man, though a quick 
one. He had a way of doing the bluntest things without rough- 


THE LAST WAGER 


113 


ing the feelings. When he drew nigh, he Io',k r , \y father’s arm 
to lead him aside, speaking to me at the same time — ‘ Rayner, go 
to Rachel ; — I have prepared her to <*ee you. I will explain 
every thing to your father, if you have not already done it ; and 
if you have, I still have something to say.’ 

“ You may reckon I didn’t stop to count the tracks after that. 

I verily think that I made the door of the house in a hop-skip-and- 
jump from the stable. Yet, when I got to the threshold, I stuck 
— I stuck fast. I heard a low sweet sort of moaning from within, 
and oh ! how my heart smote me when I heard it. I thought to 
myself, it’s so cruel to force this poor girl’s inclination. What 
can she see in me ? That was my question to myself, and it 
made me mighty humble, I tell you, when I asked it. But that 
very humbleness did me good, and gave me sort of strength. 1 If 
she don’t see any thing in me to favour,’ was my thought, ‘ at 
least I’ll show her that I’m not the mean-spirited creature to take 
advantage of her necessity ;’ and when I thought in this manner, I 
went forward with a bound, and stood before her. I took her 
hand in mine, and said, — but Lord bless me, it’s no use to try 
and tell you what I said, for l don’t know myself. The words 
poured from me free enough. My heart was very full. I meant 
to speak kindly and humbly, and do the thing generously, and I 
reckon that, when the heart means what is right, and has a 
straight purpose before it, the tongue can’t go very far out of the 
way. Nor did mine, if I am to judge of the effects which fol- 
lowed it. It’s enough for me to tell you, that, though the tears 
wasn’t altogether dried up in Rachel’s eyes, her lips began to 
smile ; she let her hand rest in mine, and she said something, but 
what it was, I can’t tell you. It’s enough to say that she let me 
know that she thought that all that had been proposed by Mr. 
Eckhardt was for her good and happiness, and she was willing to 
consent to whatever he had said. He came in a little while af- 
ter, and seemed quite satisfied. He talked, as if he himself was 
particularly pleased, but there was a very great earnestness in 
his looks that awed and overpowered me. His eyes seemed very 
much sunk, even in the short time he had been gone, the wrinkles 
seemed to have doubled in number on his face ; his form trembled 
very much, and ■ could perceive that he took his pills from the little 

9 


114 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


box of silver twice as often as ever He didn’t give himself 
or me much time to think over what was to happen, for he hadn’t 
been ten minutes returned to the house, after the matter was un- 
derstood all round, before he said to me in a whisper : 

“ ‘ Rayner, my lad, you are a good fellow ; suppose you ride 
off at once for your parson. You have one, your father tells me, 
within a few miles. A smart gallop will bring him back with 
}rou before sunset, and I would see you married to-night. I shall 
have to leave you in the morning.’ 

“ Ah ! stranger, don’t wonder if I made the dust fly after that 1 
That nisjht we were married. 


THE LAST WAGER. 


115 


CHAPTER X. 

“ The next morning, just as breakfast was over, Mr. Eckhardt 
rose and buttoned his coat. 

“ ‘ Rachel, my child,’ said he, ‘ 1 shall now leave you. It will 
be pe-rhaps some time before I see you again. For that matter, I 
may never see you again. But I have fulfilled my promise to 
your dear father. You are the wife of a good man — a gentle 
and kind-hearted man. He will make you a good husband, I be- 
lieve and hope. You, I know, will make him a good wife. The 
seeds of goodness and happiness are here in this cottage — may 
they grow to fruits. Kiss me, my child ! Kiss me ! It may be 
for the last time !’ 

“ 1 No !’ said she ; 1 oh, no !’ and she caught and she clung to 
him. It was a time to bring tears, stranger, not to talk. There 
was a good many words said by all of us, but not much talking. 
It was a cry and an exclamation like, with poor Rachel, and 
then she sunk off in the arms of Mr. Eckhardt. I was monstrous 
frightened ; but he carried her into the room and laid her on the 
bed. ‘ She will soon get over it,’ said he, ‘ and in the mean time 
I’ll steal away. When she recovers follow me. You will find 

me ’ He told me where to find him — at the place where 

we had played together on the dead horse — but the sentence he 
finished in a whisper. Then he stooped and kissed her, gave her 
one long look, and his lips moved as if he was speaking a bless- 
ing over her. After this he turned from me hurriedly, as if to 
conceal the tear in his eye. But I saw it. It couldn’t be con- 
cealed. It was about the largest tear I ever did see in the eye of 
a man, but I reckon there was only that one. He was gone be- 
fore Rachel come to herself. Till that happened I was about the 
most miserable creature on earth. When she opened her eyes 
and found that he was already gone, her troubles somewhat soft- 
ened ; and when I found that, I set off to follow Mr. Eckhardt, 
as he had directed me. I found him at the place appointed, but 


116 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


he. had no horse and no cloak, and didn’t appear to have mad« 
any of the usual arrangements for travelling. I expressed my 
surprise. * Where’s your horse V I demanded. — ‘ I shall need 
none. Besides, I have none. You seem to forget, Rayner, that 
the horse is yours.’ — ‘ Mine !’ — ‘ Yes ! you won him !’ — ‘ But 

you can’t mean, sir ’ I was beginning to expostulate, 

when he put his hand on my mouth. ‘ Say no more, Ray- 
ner. You are a good fellow. The horse is yours, whether you 
have him by your skill or my generosity. Did I not tell you that 
I intended to make you my heir V 

“ I looked bewildered, and felt so, and said, ‘ Well, you don\ 
intend to leave us then V — ‘ Yes I do.’ — ‘ How do you mean to 
go — by water ?’ Remember, the river was pretty near us, and 
though I didn’t myself expect any steamboat, yet I thought it 
likely he might have heard of one. * Very possible,’ he an- 
swered, with something of a smile upon his countenance. He 
continued, aftet a short pause, 1 It is difficult to say by what con- 
veyance a man goes when he goes out of the world, Rayner. 
The journey I propose to take is no other. Life is an uncertain 
business, Rayner. Uncertain as it is, most people seem never to 
have enough of it. I am of a different thinking. I have had 
only too much. I am neither well in it, nor fit for it, and I shall 
leave it. I have made all my arrangements, settled my concerns, 
and, as I promised, you shall be my heir.’ I began to speak and 
expostulate with him, but he stopped me. ‘ Rayner, you are a 
good fellow, but you shouldn’t interrupt me. As I have but lit- 
tle time for talking, you should let me enjoy it all. You can 
say what you have to say when I am gone, and I promise you 1 
shall never interrupt you then. You have heard me, you under- 
stand my words.’ 

“ ‘ I think I do,’ was my answer ; ‘ you mean to take your 
own life !’ 

“ { True, Rayner ! but you speak as if it was yours I were 
about to take !’ 

“ I told him I felt almost as bad as if it was, and asked him 
why he should think of such a deed. 

“'It’s along story, Rayner, and you would probably under- 
stand it as thoroughly in ten words as in ten thousand. Perhaps 


THE LAST WAGER. 


117 


I should say enough in telling you that I am sick of life, and 
that life sickens me. Every moment that I live humbles and de- 
grades me. I have been the master of three princely fortunes ; 
and now I have only the means to carry me on my last journey. 
I have had the reputation of talents, wit, and wisdom in high 
degree, but lack the strength to forbear the companionship of the 
basest, and the wit to keep from being the victim of the vilest. 
Had I been the only victim, Rayner ! But that poor child, now 
your wife — the child of a dear relative and friend — entrusted to 
my guardianship in the confidence of love, which, at dying, de- 
manded of me no pledge, but that which it fancied was speaking 
through my eyes — that child has been the victim also ! Start 
not ! The child is pure as any angel. It was the robbery of 
her fortune of which I speak. ' I squandered hers with my own. 
I did not bring her to beggary, Rayner. No ! But I have lived 
in perpetual dread that I should do so ! Now that she is yours, 
I have no such fears. I know that she is safe — that she will do 
well — that you will both do well. Do not fancy, my good fellow, 
when I tell you this, that I have been seeking in vain for a hus- 
band for the child. The thing is otherwise. Husbands have 
sought for her. Men of rank and substance, for whose attentions 
the mothers of most daughters would have worked their wits and 
fingers to the bone. But if I squandered Rachel’s fortune — mark 
me — I was resolved that she should not be sacrificed. I resolved 
that I would do her justice, at least in that one respect — that she 
should never be yielded, if I could help it, to the shallow witling, 
the profligate, or the brute — let their social rank and worldly 
possessions be what they might. I knew her, and fancied I 
could tell what sort of person would suit her. I have found 
that person in you — so I believe — and my work is ended. The 
labourer knocks off when his work is done, and so will I. There 
is one thing, Rayner ’ 

“ He took from his pocket the buckskin roll which contained 
his pack of cards. 

“ < Do you see these ? I will not say that they have been my 
bane. I were a fool to say so. My own weakness was my 
bane. They were only the uncon-scious instruments in my 
hands, as innocent as the dirk or pistol in the hands of the as- 


118 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


sassin. But they have their dangers, Rayner ; and I would 
protect you against them. Take them ; I promised you should 
be my heir. Take them, but not to play them. Keep them in 
your eyes as an omen. Show them to your children as a warning. 
Tell them what I have told you ; and while you familiarize their 
eyes with their forms, familiarize their hearts with their dangers. 
There ! do not lose sight of them. Leave me now. Farewell ! 
You see I am at the bottom of my box.’ 

“ He thrust the cards into my hands, and as he spoke, he drew 
out his little silver box, and took from it the only pill which re- 
mained. This he swallowed, and then handed me the box also. ; 
I refused to take it. ‘ Pshaw !’ said he, ‘ why not ? your refusal 4 
to take it can have no effect on my determination ! Take it and 
leave me !’ But I still refused. He turned from me, saying : ' 
‘ You’re a foolish fellow, Rayner;’ and walked down the road 
leading to the river. I followed him closely. He turned half 
round, once or twice, muttered and seemed discontented. I still 
kept close with him, and began to expostulate. But he inter- J 
rupted me fiercely ; and I now perceived that his eyes began ta 
glisten and to glare very wildly. It had not escaped my obser 
vation, that the last pill which he had taken was greatly largei 
than any he had used before ; and I then remembered, that be- J 
fore the marriage ceremony was performed, on the previous • 
night, he had opened the box” more than once, in my presence, ; 
and I noted that it contained a good many. By this time we 
reached the banks of the river. He turned full upon me. | 
‘ Rayner. ’ said he, ‘ you’re a good fellow, but you must go home | 
to your wife.’ — ‘ It’s impossible,’ said I, ‘ to leave you.’ — ‘ We’ll, i 
see to that,’ said he, and he turned towards the river. I took it for • 
certain he was going to plunge in, and I jumped forward to seize 
him, but, just as my arms were extended to embrace him, he \ 
wheeled about and clapped a pistol to my head. I started back, 
quickly enough, as you may suppose ; and he exclaimed — ‘ Ah ! 
Rayner, you are a good fellow, but you cannot prevent the 
journey. Farewell !’ With these words he filing me the pistol, ; 
which I afterwards found was unloaded, and, before I could speak 
or think, he sprang from the bluff into the stream. It appeared 
to me as if I heard the splash before I saw the motion. I ran up 


THE LAST WAGER. 


i 19 


the bluff where he had stood, as soon as I could recover myself, 
and saw where the water-rings were spreading in great circles 
where he had gone down. I didn’t give myself a moment after 
that. I could swim like a duck and dive like a serpent, and had 
no fear of the water for myself ; so in I jumped, and fished about 
as long as I could stand it underneath ; but I could find nothing 
of him. He had given himself up to the currents so entirely, 
that they whirled him out of sight in a minute. When I rose and 
got to the shore, I saw his hat floating among some bushes on 
the other shore. But as for poor Mr. Eckhardt, he was gone, 
sure enough, upon his last journey ! 

“You see our little family. The boy is very much like him 
in looks, and I reckon in understanding. He’s. very thoughtful 
and smart. We are happy, stranger, and I don’t believe that 
Mr. Eckhardt was wrong in his notion that I would make Rachel 
happy. She tells me she is, and it makes me happy to believe 
her. It makes her sad to see the cards, and sad to hear of them, 
but she thinks it best for our boy that he should, hear the story 
and learn it all by heart ; and that makes her patient, and pa- 
tience brings a sort of peace along with it that’s pretty much like 
happiness. I could tell you more, my friend, but it’s not need- 
ful, and your eyes look as if they had kept open long enough for 
One sitting. So come with me, and let me show you where you 
are to lie down !” 

These words roused me ! I half suspect that I was drowsing 
in my chair. I can hardly suppose, dear reader, that you could 
be capable of an act of like forgetfulness. 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


•$0 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 

A TRADITION OF THE CATAWBA. 


CHAPTER I. 

The windy month had set in, the leaves were falling, and the light- 
footed hunters of Catawba, set forth upon the chase. Little groups 
went off in every direction, and before two weeks had elapsed 
from the beginning of the campaign, the whole nation was broken 
up into parties, each under the guidance of an individual warrior. 
The course of the several hunting bands was taken according tc 
the tastes or habits of these leaders. Some of the Indians were 
famous for their skill in hunting the otter, could swim as long 
with head under water as himself, and be not far from his 
haunches, when he emerged to breathe. These followed the 
course of shallow waters and swamps, and thick, dense bays, in 
which it was known that he found his favourite haunts. The bear 
hunter pushed for the cane brakes and the bee trees; and woe 
to the black bear whom he encountered with his paws full of 
honeycomb, which he was unwilling to leave behind him. The 
active warrior took his way towards the hills, seeking for the 
brown wolf and the deer ; and, if the truth were known, smiled 
with wholesale contempt at the more timorous who desired less 
adventurous triuTnphs. Many set forth in couples only, avoiding 
with care all the clamorous of the tribe ; and some few, the more 
surly or successful — the inveterate bachelors of the nation — were 
content to make their forward progress alone. The old men pre- 
pared their traps and nets, the boys their blow guns, and followed 
with the squaws slowly, according to the division made by the 
hunters among themselves. They carried the blankets and bread 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


121 


stuffs, and camped nightly in noted places, to which, according to 
previous arrangement, the hunters might repair at evening and 
bring their game. In this way, some of the tribes followed the 
course of the Catawba, even to its source. Others darted off 
towards the Pacolet and Broad rivers, and there were some, the 
most daring and swift of foot, who made nothing of a journey to 
the Tiger river, and the rolling mountains of Spartanburg. 

There were two warriors who pursued this course. One of 
tnem was named Conattee, and a braver man and more fortunate 
hunter never lived. But he had a wife who was a greater scold 
than Xantippe. She was the wonder and the terror of the tribe, 
and quite as ugly as the one-eyed sqUaw of Tustenuggee, the 
grey demon of Enoree. Her tongue was the signal for “ slink- 
ing,” among the bold hunters of Turkey-town; and when they 
heard it, “ now,” said the young women, who sympathised, as all 
proper young women will do, with the handsome husband of an 
ugly wife, “ now,” said they, “ we know that poor Conattee has 
come home.” The return of the husband, particularly if he 
brought no game, was sure to be followed by a storm of that 
“ dry thunder,” so well known, which never failed to be heard a> 
the farthest end of the village. 

The companion of Conattee on the present expedition was named 
Selonee— one of the handsomest fads in the whole nation. He 
was tall and straight like a pine tree ; had proved his skill and 
courage in several expeditions against the Chowannee red sticks, 
and had found no young warriors of the Cherokee, though he had 
been on the war path against them and had stricken all their posts, 
who could circumvent him in stratagem or conquer him in actual 
blows. His renown as a hunter was not less great. He had put 
to shame the best wolf-takers of the tribe, and the lodge of his 
venerablS father, Chifonti, was never without meat. There was 
no good reason why Oonattee, the married man, should be so in- 
timate with Selonee, the single — there was no particular sympa- 
thy between the two ; but, thrown together in sundry expeditions, 
they had formed an intimacy, which, strange to say, was neither 
denounced nor discouraged by the virago wife of the former. She 
who approved of but few of her husband’s movements, and still 
fewer of his friends and fellowships, forbore all her reproaches 


122 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


when Selonee was his companion. She was the meekest, gentlest, 
sweetest tempered of all wives whenever the young hunter came 
home with her husband ; and he, poor man, was consequently, 
never so well satisfied as when he brought Selonee with him. It 
was on such occasions, only, that the poorConattee could persuade 
himself to regard Macourah as a tolerable personage. How he 
came to marry such a creature — such a termagant, and so mon- 
strous ugly — was a mystery which none of the damsels of Catawba 
could elucidate, though the subject was one on which, when 
mending the young hunter’s mocasins, they expended no small 
quantity of conjecture. Conattee, we may be permitted to say, 
was still quite popular among them, in spite of his bad taste, and 
manifest unavailableness ; possibly, for the very reason that his 
wife was universally detested ; and it will, perhaps, speak some- 
thing for their charity, if we pry no deeper into their motives, to 
say that the wish was universal among them that the Opitchi Man- 
neyto, or Black Devil of their belief, would take the virago to 
himself, and leave to the poor Conattee some reasonable hope of 
being made happy by a more indulgent spouse. 


THE ARM-CHATR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


123 


CHAPTER II. 

Well. Conattee and Selonee were out of sight of the smoke oi 
“ Turkey-town,” and, conscious of his freedom as he no longei 
heard the accents of domestic authority, the henpecked husband 
gave a loose to his spirits, and made ample amends to himself, by 
the indulgence of joke and humour, for the sober constraints which 
fettered him at home. Selonee joined with him in his merriment 
and the resolve was mutual that they should give the squaws the 
•dip and not linger in their progress till they had thrown the Tiger 
river behind them. To trace their course till they came to the 
famous hunting ground which bordered upon the Pacolet, will 
scarcely be necessary, since, as they did not stop to hunt by the 
way, there were necessarily but few incidents to give interest to 
their movements. When they had reached the river, however 
they made for a cove, well known to them on previous season^ 
which lay between the parallel waters of the Pacolet, and a little 
stream called the Thicketty — a feeder of the Eswawpuddenah, in 
which they had confident hopes of finding the game which they do 
sired. In former years the spot had been famous as a sheltering place 
for herds of wolves ; and, with something like the impatience of a 
warrior waiting for his foe, the hunters prepared their strongest 
shafts arid sharpest flints, and set their keen eyes upon the closes* 
places of the thicket, into which they plunged fearlessly. The\ 
had not proceeded far, before a single boar- wolf, of amazing size, 
started up in their path ; and, being slightly wounded by the ar- 
row of Selonee, which glanced first upon some twigs beneath 
which he lay, he darted off with a fearful howl in the direction of 
Conattee, whose unobstructed shaft, penetrating the side beneath 
the fore shoulders, inflicted a fearful, if not a fatal wound, upon 
the now thoroughly enraged beast. He rushed upon Conattee in his 
desperation, but the savage was too quick for him ; leaping behind 
a tree, he avoided the rashing stroke with which the white tusks 
threatened him, and by this time was enabled to fit a second arro^ 


124 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


to his bow. His aim was true, and the stone blade of the shaft 
went quivering into the shaggy monster’s heart ; who, under the 
pang of the last convulsion, bounded into the muddy waters of the 
Thicketty Creek, to the edge of which the chase had now brought 
all the parties. Conattee beheld him plunge furiously forward 
— twice — thrice — then rest with hi-s nostrils in the water, as the 
current bore him from sight around a little elbow of the creek. 
But it was not often that the Indian hunter of those days lost the 
game which he had stricken. Conattee stripped to it, threw his 
fringed hunting shirt of buckskin on the bank, with his bow and 
arrows, his mocasins and leggins beside it, and reserving only his 
knife, he called to Selonee, who was approaching him, to keep 
them in sight, and plunged into the water in pursuit of his victim. 
Selonee gave little heed to the movements of his companion, after 
the first two or three vigorous strokes which he beheld him make. 
Such a pursuit, as it promised no peril, called for little consider- 
ation from this hardy and fearless race, and Selonee amused him- 
self by striking into a thick copse which they had not yet trav- 
ersed, in search of other sport. There he started the she-wolf, 
and found sufficient employment on his own hands to call for all 
his attention to himself. When Selonee first came in sight of her, 
she was lying on a bed of rushes and leaves, which she had prepared 
under the roots of a gigantic Spanish oak. Her cubs, to the 
number of five, lay around her, keeping a perfect silence, which 
she had no doubt enforced upon them after her own fashion, and 
which was rigidly maintained until they saw him. It was then 
that the instincts of the fierce beasts could no longer be suppress- 
ed, and they joined at once in a short chopping bark, or cry, at 
the stranger, while their little eyes flashed fire, and their red jaws, 
thinly sprinkled with the first teeth, were gnashed together with a 
show of that ferocious hatred of man, which marks their nature, 
but which, fortunately for Selonee, was too feeble at that time to 
make his approach to them dangerous. But the dam demanded 
greater consideration. With one sweep of her fore-paw she drew 
all the young ones behind her, and showing every preparedness 
for flight, she began to move backward slowly beneath the over- 
hanging limbs of the tree, still keeping her keen, fiery eye fixed 
upon the hunter. But Selonee was not disposed to suffer her te 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


125 


get off so easily. The success of Conattee had just give’i him 
sufficient provocation to make him silently resolve that the she- 
wolf — who is always more to be dreaded than the male, as, with 
nearly all his strength, she has twice his swiftness, and, with her 
young about her, more than twice his ferocity — should testify 
more completely to* his prowess than the victory just obtained by 
his companion could possibly speak for his. His eye was fixed up- 
on hers, and hers, never for a moment, taken from him. It was 
his object to divert it, since he well knew, that with his first move- 
ment, she would most probably spring upon him. Without lifting 
his bow, which he nevertheless had in readiness, he whistled 
shrilly as if to his dog ; and answered himself by a correct imita- 
tion of the bark of the Indian cur, the known enemy of the wolf, 
and commonly his victim. The keen eye of the angry beast 
looked suddenly around as if fearing an assault upon her young 
ones from behind. In that moment, the arrow of Selonee was 
driven through her neck, apd when she leaped forward to the 
place where he stood, he was no longer to be seen. 

From a tree which he had thrown between them, he watched 
tier movements and prepared a second shaft. Meanwhile she 
made her way back slowly to her young, and before she could 
again turn towards him a second arrow had given her another 
and severer wound. Still, as Selonee well knew the singular 
tenacity of life possessed by these fierce animais, he prudently 
changed his position with every shaft, and took especial care to 
place himself in the rear of some moderately sized tree, suffi- 
ciently large to shelter him from her claws, yet small enough to 
enable him to take free aim around it. Still he did not, at any 
time, withdraw more than twenty steps from his enemy. Divided 
in her energies by the necessity of keeping near her young, he 
was conscious of her inability to pursue him far. Carrying on 
the war in this manner he had buried no less than five arrows in 
her body, and it was not until his sixth had penetrated her eye, 
that he deemed himself safe in the nearer approach which he now 
meditated. She had left her cubs, on receiving his last shot, and 
was writhing and leaping, Dlinded, no less than maddened, by the 
wou id, in a vain endeavour to approach her assailant. It was 
row that Selonee determined on a closer conflict. It was the 


126 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


great boast of the Catawba warriors to grapple with the wolf, and 
while he yet struggled, to tear the quick quivering heart from his 
bosom.- He placed his bow and arrows behind the . tree, and 
taking in Ins left hand a chunk or fragment of a bough, while he 
grasped his unsheathed knife in his right, he leapt in among the 
cubs, and struck one of them a severe blow upon the head with 
the chunk. Its scream, and the confusion among the rest, brought 
back the angry dam, and though she could see only imperfectly, 
yet, guided by their clamour, she rushed with open jaws upon the 
hunter. With keen, quick eyes, and steady resolute nerves, he 
waited for her approach, and when she turned her head aside, to 
strike him with her sharp teeth, he thrust the pine fragment which 
he carried in his left hand, into her extended jaws, and pressing 
fast upon her, bore back her haunches to the earth. All this while 
the young ones were impotently gnawing at the heels of the war- 
rior, which had been fearlessly planted in the very midst of them. 
But these he did not heed. The larger and fiercer combatant 
called for all his attention, and her exertions, quickened by the 
spasms of her wounds, rendered necessary all his address and 
strength to preserve the advantage he had gained. The fierce 
beast had sunk her teeth by this into the wood, and, leaving 
it in her jaws, he seized her with the hand, now freed, by the 
throat, and, bearing her upward, so as to yield him a plain and 
easy stroke at her belly, he drove the deep knife into it, and drew 
the blade upwards, until resisted by the bone of the breast. It 
was then, while she lay writhing and rolling upon the ground in 
the agonies of death, that he tore the heart from the opening he 
had made, and hurled it down to the cubs, who seized on it with 
avidity. This done, he patted and caressed them, and while they 
struggled about him for the meat, he cut a fork in the ears of 
each, and putting the slips in his pouch, left the young ones 
without further hurt, for the future sport of the hunter. The 
dam he scalped, and with this trophy in possession, he pushed 
oack to the place where he had left the accoutrements of Co- 
nattee, which he found undisturbed in the place where he hud 
luid them. 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


12 / 


CHAPTER III. 

But where was Conattee himself during, all this period ? Some 
hours had elapsed since he had taken the river after the tiger that 
he had slain, and it was something surprising to Selonee that he 
should have remained absent and without his clothes so long. 
The weather was cold and unpleasant, and it could scarce be a 
matter of choice with the hunter, however hardy, to suffer all its 
biting bleaknesses when his garments were within his reach. 
This reflection made Selonee apprehensive that some harm had 
happened to his companion. He shouted tp him, but received no 
answer. Could he have been seized with the cramp while in the 
stream, and drowned before he could extricate himself. This 
was a danger to which the very best of swimmers is liable at 
certain seasons of the year, and in certain conditions of the body. 
Selonee reproached himself that he had not waited beside the 
stream until the result of Conattee’s experiment was known. 
The mind of the young hunter was troubled with many fears and 
doubts. He went down the bank of the river, and called aloud 
with all his lungs, until the woods and waters re-echoed, again 
and again, the name of Conattee. He received no other response. 
With a mind filled with increasing fears, each more unpleasant 
than the last, Selonee plunged into the* creek, and struck off for 
the opposite shore, at the very point at which the tiger had been 
about to turn, under the influence of the current, when Conattee 
went in after him. He was soon across, and soon found the 
tracks of the hunter in the gray sands upon its margin. He 
found, too, to his great delight, the traces made by the carcass of 
the jger — the track was distinct enough from the blood which 
dropped from the reeking skin of the beast, and Selonee rejoiced 
in the certainty that the traces which he followed would soon lead 
him to his friend. But not so. He had scarcely gone fifty yards 
into the wood when his tracks failed him at the foot of a crooked, 
fallen tree, one of the most gnarled and complicated of all the 


128 


THE WIGWAM K VD THE CABIN. 


crooked trees of the forest ; here all signs disappeared. Conattee 
was not only not there, but had left no sort of clue by which to 
follow him further. This was the strangest thing of all. The 
footprints were distinct enough till he came to the spot where lay 
the crooked tree, but there he lost them. He searched the forest 
around him, in every direction. Not a copse escaped his search 
— not a bay — not a thicket — not an island — -and he came back to 
the spot where the tiger had been skinned, faint and weary, and 
more sorrowful than can well be spoken. Atone time he fancied 
his friend was drowned, at another, that he was taken prisoner 
by the Cherokees. But there were his tracks from the river, and 
there were no other tracks than his own. Besides, so far as the 
latter supposition was concerned, it was scarcely possible that sa 
brave and cunning a warrior would suffer himself to be s© com- 
pletely entrapped and ^carried off by an enemy, without so much 
as being able to give the alarm ; and, even had that been the case, 
would it be likely that the enemy would have suffered him to pass 
without notice. “ But,” here the suggestion naturally arose in 
the mind of Selonee, “ may they not even now be on the track !” 
With the suggestion the gallant youth bounded to his feet. “ It 
is no fat turkey that they seek !” he exclaimed, drawing out an 
arrow from the leash that hung upon his shoulders, and fitting it 
to his bow, while his busy, glancing eye watched every shadow 
in the wood, and his keen, quick ear noted every sound. But 
there were no signs of an enemy, and a singular and mournful 
stillness hung over the woods. Never was creature more 
miserable than Selonee. He called aloud, until his voice grew 
•loarse, and his throat sore, upon the name of Conattee. There 
was no answer, but the gibing echoes of his own hoarse accents. 
Once more he went back to the river, once more he plunged into 
its bosom, and with lusty sinews struck out for a thick green island 
that lay some quarter of a mile below, to which he thought it not 
improbable that the hunter might have wandered in pursuit of 
;>ther game. It was a thickly wooded but small island, which he 
traversed in an hour. Finding nothing, he made his weary way 
oaclc to the spot from which his friend had started on leaving him. 
Here he found his clothes where he had hidden them. The 
neighbourhood of this region he traversed in like manner with 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


120 


the opposite — going over ground, and into places, which it was 
scarcely in the verge of physical possibility that his friend’s per- 
son could have gone. 

The day waned and night came on, and still the persevering 
hunter gave not up his search. The midnight found him at the 
foot of the tree, where they had parted, exhausted but sleepless, 
and suffering bitterly in mind from those apprehensions which 
every moment of hopeless search had necessarily helped to 
accumulate and strengthen. Day dawned, and his labour was 
renewed. The unhappy warrior went resolutely over all the 
ground which he had traversed the night before. Once more he 
crossed the river, and followed, step by step, the still legible foot 
tracks of Conattee. These, he again noted, were all in the oppo- 
site direction to the stream, to which it was evident he had not 
returned. But, after reaching the place where lay the fallen 
tree, all signs failed. Selonee looked round the crooked tree, 
crawled under its sprawling and twisted limbs, broke into the 
hollow which was left by its uptorn roots, and again shouted, until 
all the echoes gave back his voice, the name of Conattee, implo- 
ring him for an answer if he could hear him and reply. But the 
echoes died away, leaving him in a silence that spoke more loudly 
10 his heart than before, that his quest was hopeless. Yet he 
gave it not up until the day had again failed him. That night, 
as before, he slept upon the ground. With the dawn, he again 
went over it, and with equally bad success. This done, he deter- 
mined to return to the camp. He no longer had any spirit to 
pursue the sports for which alone he had set forth. His heart 
was full of sorrow, his limbs were weary, and he felt none of that 
vigorous elasticity which had given him such great renown as a 
brave and a hunter, among his own and the neighbouring nations! 
He tied the clothes of Conattee upon his shoulders, took his bow 
and arrows, now sacred in his sight, along with him, and turned 
his eyes homeward. The next day, at noon, he reached the 
encampment. 


10 


130 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER IV. 

The hunters were all in the woods, and none but the squawa 
and the papooses left in the encampment. Selonee came within 
sight of their back settlements, and seated himself upon a log at 
the edge of the forest with his back carefully turned towards the 
smoke of the camp. Nobody ventured to approach him while in 
this situation ; but, at night, when the hunters came dropping in, 
one by one, Selonee. drew nigh to them. He called them apart 
from the women. *nd then told them his story. 

% This is a strange tale which the wolf-chief tells us,” said 
one of the old men, with a smile of incredulity. 

“ It is a true tale, father,” was the reply. 

“ Conattee was a brave chief!” 

“ Very brave, father,” said Selonee. 

“ Had he not eyes to see ?” 

“ The great bird, that rises to the sun, had not better,” was the 
reply. 

“ What painted jay was it that said Conattee was a fool ?” 

“ The painted bird lied, that said so, my father,” was the 
response of Selonee. 

“ And comes Selonee, the wolf-chief, to us, with a tale that 
Conattee was blind, and could not see ; a coward that could not 
strike the she- wolf ; a fool that knew not where to set down his 
foot ; and shall we not say Selonee lies upon his brother, even as 
the painted bird that makes a noise in my ears. Selonee has 
slain Conattee with his knife. See, it is the blood of Conattee 
upon the war-shirt of Selonee.” 

“ It is the blood of the she-wolf,” cried the young warrior, 
with a natural indignation. 

“ Let Selonee go to the woods behind the lodges, till the chiefs 
say what shall be done to Selonee, because of Conattee, whom he 
slew.” 

“ Selonee will go, as Emathla the wise chief, has commanded,” 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEt 131 

replied the young warrior. “ He will wait behind the lodges, till 
the chiefs have said what is good to be done to him, and if they 
say that he must die because of Conattee, it is well. Selonee 
laughs at death. But the blood of Conattee is not upon the war- 
shirt of Selonee. He has said it is the blood of the wolf’s mother. ” 
With these words the young chief drew forth the skin of the wolf 
which he had slain, together with the tips of the ears taken from 
the cubs, and leaving them in the place where he had sat, with- 
drew, without further speech, from the assembly which was about 
to sit in judgment upon his life. 


IS 


# 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


132 


CHAPTER y. 

The consultation that followed was close and earnest. There 
was scarcely any doubt in the minds of the chiefs that Conattee 
was slain by his companion. He had brought back with him 
arms and all the clothes of the hunter. He was covered with his 
blood, as they thought ; and the grief which filled his heart and 
depressed his countenance, looked, in their eyes, rather like the 
expression of guilt than suffering. For a long while did they 
consult together. Selonee had friends who were disposed to save 
him ; but he had enemies also, as merit must have always, and 
these were glad of the chance afforded them to put out of their 
reach, a rival of whom they were jealous, and ^ warrior whom 
they feared. Unfortunately for Selonee, the laws of the nation 
but too well helped the malice of his foes. These laws, as peremp- 
tory as those of the Medes and Persians, held him liable in his 
own life for that of the missing hunter; and the only indulgence 
that could be accorded to Selonee, and which was obtained for 
him, was, that he. might be allowed a single moon in which to find 
Conattee, and bring him home to his people. 

“ Will Selonee go seek Conattee — the windy moon is for Selo- 
nee — let him bring Conattee home to his people.” Thus said the 
chiefs, when the young warrior was again brought before them. 

“Selonee would die to find Conattee,” was the reply. 

“ He will die if he finds him not !” answered the chief 
Emathla. 

“It is well!” calmly spoke the young warrior. “Is Selonee 
free to go ?” 

“ The windy moon is for Selonee. Will he return to the lodges 
if he fines not Conattee?” was the inquiry of Emathla. 

“ Is Selonee a dog, to fly !” indignantly demanded the warrior. 
“ Let Emathla send a young warrior on the right and on the left 
of Selonee, if he trusts not what is spoken by Selonee. ” 

“Selonee will go alone, and bring back Conattee.” 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


133 


CHAPTER VI. 

The confidence thus reposed in one generally esteemed a mur- 
derer, and actually under sentence as such, is customary among 
the Indians ; nor is it often abused. The loss of caste which 
would follow their flight from justice, is much more terrible 
among them than any fear of death — which an Indian may avoid, 
but not through fear. Their loss of caste among themselves, 
apart from the outlawry which follows it, is, in fact, a loss of the 
soul. The heaven of the great Manneyto is denied to one under 
outlawry of the nation, and such a person is then the known and 
chosen slave of the demon, Opitchi-,Manneyto. It was held an un- 
necessary insult on the part of Emathla, to ask Selonee if he 
would return to meet his fate. But Emathla was supposed to fa- 
vour the enemies of Selonee. 

With such a gloomy alternative before him in the event of his 
proving unsuccessful, the young hunter retraced his steps to the 
fatal waters where Conattee had disappeared. With a spirit no 
less warmly devoted to his friend, than anxious to avoid the dis- 
graceful doom to which he was destined, the youth spared no pains, 
withheld no exertion, overlooked no single spot, and omitted no 
art known to the hunter, to trace out the mystery which covered 
the fate of Conattee. But days passed of fruitless labour, and the 
last faint slender outlines of the moon which had been allotted 
him for the search, gleamed forth a sorrowful light upon his path, 
as he wearily traced it onward to the temporary lodges of the 
tribe. 

Once more he resumed his seat before the council and listened 
to the doom which was in reserve for him. When the sentence 
was pronounced, he untied his arrows, loosened the belt at his 
waist, put a fillet around his head, made of the green bark of a 
little sapling which he cut in the neighbouring woods, then rising 
to his feet, he spoke thus, in language, r;,d with a spirit, becoming 
so great a warrior. 


134 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


“ It is well. The chiefs have spoken, and the wolf-chief doe'* 
not tremble. He loves the chase, but he does not weep like a 
woman, because it is forbidden that he go after the deer — he loves 
to fright the young hares of the Cherokee, but he laments not that 
ye say ye can conquer the Cherokee without his help. Fathers, 
I have slain the deer and the wolf — my lodge is full of their ears. 
1 have slain the Cherokee, till the scalps are about my knees 
when I walk in the cabin. I go not to the dark valley without 
glory — I have had the victories of grey hairs, but there is no grey 
hair in my own. I have no more to say — there is a deed for 
every arrow that is here. Bid the young men get their bows 
ready, let them put a broad stone upon their arrows that may go 
soon into the life — I will show my people how to die.” 

They led him forth as he commanded, to the place of execution 
— a little space behind the encampment, where a hole had been 
already dug for his burial. While he went, he recited his vic- 
tories to the youths who attended him. To each he gave an ar 
row which he was required to keep, and with this arrow, he re 
lated some incident in which he had proved his valour, either in 
conflict with some other warrior, or with the wild beasts of the 
woods. These deeds, each of them was required to remember ana 
relate, and show the arrow which was given with the narrative on 
occasion of this great state solemnity. In this way, their traditions 
are preserved. When he reached the grave, he took his station 
before it, the executioners, with their arrows, being already 
placed in readiness. The whole tribe had assembled to wit- 
ness the execution, the warriors and boys in the foreground, the 
squaws behind them. A solemn silence prevailed over the scene, 
and a few moments only remained to the victim ; when the wife 
of Conattee darted forward from the crowd bearing in her hands 
a peeled wand, with which, with every appearance of anger, she 
struck Selonee over the shoulders, exclaiming as she did so : 

“ Come, thou dog, thou shaltnot die — thou shalt lie in the door- 
way of Conattee, and brings venison for his wife. Shall there be 
no cne to bring meat to my lodge ? Thou shalt do this, Selonee 
— thou shalt not die.” 

A murmur arose from the crowd at these words. 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


135 


“ She hath claimed Selonee for her husband, in place of Co- 
naltee — well, she hath the right.” 

The enemies of Selonee could not object. The widow had, in 
fact, exercised a privilege which is recognized by the Indian lavs 
almost universally ; and the policy by which she was governed 
in the present instance, was sufficiently apparent to all the vil- 
lage. It was evident, now that Conattee was gone, that nobody 
could provide for the woman who had no sons, and no male rela- 
tions, and who was too execrably ugly, and too notorious as a scold, 
to leave it possible that she could ever procure another husband 
so inexperienced or so flexible as the one she had lost. Smartly 
striking Selonee on his shoulders, she repeated her command 
that he should rise and follow her. 

“ Thou wilt take this dog to thy lodge, that he may hunt thee 
venison ?” demanded the old chief, Emathla. 

“ Have I not said ?” shouted the scold — “ hear you not ? The 
dog is mine — I bid him follow me.” 

“ Is there no friendly arrow to seek my heart ?” murmured the 
young warrior, as, rising slowly from the grave into which he 
had previously descended, he prepared to obey the laws of his na- 
tion, in the commands of the woman who claimed him to replace 
the husband who was supposed to have died by his hands. Even 
the foes of Selonee looked on him with lessened hostility, and the 
pity of his friends was greater now than when he stood on the 
precipice of death. The young women of the tribe wept bitter- 
ly as they beheld so monstrous a sacrifice. Meanwhile, the ex- 
ulting hag, as if conscious of her complete control over the vic- 
tim. goaded him forward with repeated strokes of her wand. 
She knew that she was hated by all the young women, and she 
was delighted to show them a conquest which would have been 
a subject of pride to any among them. With this view she led 
the captive through their ranks. As they parted mournfully, on 
either hand, to suffer the two to pass, Selonee stopped short and 
motioned one of the young women who stood at the greatest dis- 
tance behind the rest, looking on with eyes which, if they had 
no tears, yet gave forth an expression of desolateness more woful 
than any tears could have done. With clasped hands, and trem- 
bling as she came, the gentle maiden drew nigh. 


136 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


“ Was it a dream,” said Selonee sorrowfully, “ that told me of 
the love of a singing bird, and a green cabin by the trickling 
waters ? Did I hear a voice that said to me sweetly, wait but a 
little, till the green corn breaks the hill, and Medoree will come 
to thy cabin and lie by thy side ? Tell me, is this thing true, 
Medoree ?” 

“ Thou sayest, Selonee — the thing is true,” was the reply of 
the maiden, uttered in broken accents that denoted a breaking 
heart. 

“ But they will make Selonee go to the lodge of another woman 
— they will put Macourah into the arms of Selonee.” 

“ Alas ! Alas !” 

“Wilt thou see this thing, Medoree? Can’st thou look upon 
it, then turn away, and going back to thy own lodge, can’st thou 
sing a gay song of forgetfulness as thou goest ?” 

“ Forgetfulness ! — Ah, Selonee.” 

“ Thou art the beloved of Selonee, Medoree — thou shalt not 
lose him. It would vex thy heart that another should take him 
to her lodge !” — 

The tears of the damsel flowed freely dovvn her cheeks, and 
she sobbed bitterly, but said nothing. 

“ Take the knife from my belt, Medoree, and put its sharp 
tooth into my heart, ere thou sufferest this thing! Wilt thou 
not ?” 

The girl shrunk back with an expression of undisguised hor- 
ror in her face. 

“ I will bless thee, Medoree,” was the continued speech of 
the warrior. She turned from him, covering her face with her 
hands. 

“I cannot do this thing, Selonee — I cannot strike thy heart 
with the knife. Go — let the woman have thee. Medoree cannot 
kill thee — she will herself die.” 

“ It is well,” cried the youth, in a voice of mournful self-aban- 
donment, as he resumed his progress towards the lodge of Macou- 
rah. 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


137 


CHAPTER VI. 

It is now time to return to Conattee, and trace his progress 
from the moment when, plunging into the waters, he left the side 
of Selonee in pursuit of the wolf, whose dying struggles in the 
stream he had beheld. We are already acquainted with his suc- 
cess in extricating the animal from the water, and possessing him- 
self of its hide. He had not well done this when he hdard a rush- 
ing noise in the woods above him, and fancying that there was a 
prospect of other game at hand, and inflated with the hope of add- 
ing to his trophies, though without any weapon but his knife, Co- 
nattee hastened to the spot. When he reached it, however, he 
beheld nothing. A gigantic and singularly deformed pine tree, 
crooked and most irregular in shape, lay prostrate along the 
ground, and formed such an intricate covering above it, that Co- 
nattee deemed it possible that some beast of prey might have 
made its den among the recesses of its roots. With this thought, 
he crawled under the spreading limbs, and searched all their in 
tricacies. Emerging from the search, which had been fruitless, 
he took a seat upon the trunk of the tree, and spreading out the 
wolf’s hide before him, proceeded to pare away the particles of 
flesh which, in the haste with which he had performed the task 
of flaying him, had been suffered to adhere to the skin. But he 
had scarcely commenced the operation, when two gigantic limbs 
of the fallen tree upon which he sat, curled over his thighs and 
bound him to the spot. Other limbs, to his great horror, while he 
strove to move, clasped his arms and covered his shoulders. He 
strove to cry aloud, but his jaws were grasped before he could 
well open them, by other branches ; and, with his eyes, which 
were suffered to peer through little openings in the bark, he could 
see his legs encrusted by like coverings with his other members. 
Still' seeing, his own person yet escaped his sight. Not a part of 
it now remained visible to himself. A bed of green velvet-like 
moss rested on his lap. His knees shot out a thorny excrescence ; 


138 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


and his hands, flattened to his thighs, were enveloped in as com- 
plete a casing of bark as covered the remainder of the tree around 
him. Even his knife and wolf skin, to his great surprise, suffered 
in like manner, the bark having contracted them into one of those 
huge bulging knobs that so numerously deformed the tree. With 
all his thoughts and consciousness remaining, Conattee had yet 
lost every faculty of action. When he tried to scream aloud, 
his jaws felt the contraction of a pressure upon them, which re- 
sisted all their efforts, while an oppressive thorn growing upon a 
wild vine that hung before his face, was brought by every move- 
ment of himself or of the tree into his very mouth. The poor 
hunter immediately conceived his situation — he was in the power 
of Tustenuggee, the Grey Demon of Enoree. The tree upon 
which he sat was one of those magic trees which 'he tradition of 
his people- entitled the “ Arm-chair of Tustenuggee.” In these 
traps for the unwary the wicked demon caught his victim, and 
exulted in his miseries. Here he sometimes remained until death 
released him ; for it was not often that the power into whose 
clutches he had fallen, suffered his prey to escape through a sud- 
den feeling of lenity and good humour. The only hope of Co- 
nattee was that Selonee might suspect his condition ; in which 
event his rescue was simple and easy enough. It was only to 
hew off the limbs, or pare away the bark, and the victim was un- 
covered in his primitive integrity. But how improbable that this 
discovery should be made. He had no voice to declare his bond- 
age. He had no capacity for movement by which he might re- 
veal the truth to his comrade’s eyes ; and unless some divine in- 
stinct should counsel his friend to an experiment which he would 
scarcely think upon, of himself, the poor prisoner felt that he must 
die in the miserable bondage into which he had fallen. While 
these painful convictions were passing through his mind, he heard 
the distant shoutings of Selonee. In a little while he beheld the 
youth anxiously seeking him in every quarter, following his trail 
at length to the very tree in which he was bound, crawling like 
himself beneath its branches, but not sitting like himself to be 
caught upon its trunk. Vainly did the poor fellow strive to utter 
but a few words, however faintly, apprising the youth of his con- 
dition. The effort died away in the most imperfect breathing 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


139 


sounding in his own ears like the faint sigh of some budding 
flower. With equal ill success did he aim to struggle with his 
limbs. He was too tightly grasped, in every part, to stir in the 
slightest degree a single member. He saw the fond search, mean- 
while, which his comrade maintained, and his heart yearned the 
more in fondness for the youth. But it was with consummate 
horror that he saw him depart as night came on. Miserable, in- 
deed, were his feelings that night. The voice of the Grey Demon 
alone kept him company, and he and his one-eyed wife made 
merry with his condition, goading him the livelong night with 
speeches of cruel gibe and mischievous reflection, such as the 
following : 

“ There is no hope for you, Conattee, till some one takes your 
place. Some one must sit in your lap, whom you are willing to 
leave behind you, before you can get out of mine,” was the speech 
of the Grey Demon, who, perched upon Conattee’s shoulders, bent 
his huge knotty head over him, while his red eyes looked into the 
half-hidden ones of the environed hunter, and glared upon him 
with the exultation of the tyrant at last secure of his prey. Night 
passed away at length, and, with the dawn, how was the hopeless 
heart of Conattee refreshed as he again saw Selonee appear. He 
then remembered the words of Tustenuggee, which told him that 
he could not escape until some one sat in his lap whom he was 
willing to leave behind him. The fancy rose in his mind that 
Selonee would do this ; but could it be that he would consent to 
leave his friend behind him. Life was sweet, and great was the 
temptation. At one moment he almost wished that Selonee would 
draw nigh and seat himself after his fatigue. As if the young 
hunter knew his wish, he drew nigh at that instant ; but the bet- 
ter feelings in Conattee’s heart grew strong as he approached, and, 
striving to twist and writhe in his bondage, and labouring at the 
same time to call out in warning to his friend, he manifested the 
noble resolution not to avail himself of his friend’s position to re- 
lieve his own ; and, as if the warning of Conattee had really 
reached the understanding of Selonee, the youth retraced his 
steps, and once more hurried away from the place of danger. 
With his final departure the fond hopes of the prisoner sunk within 
him; and when hour after hour had gone by without the appear 


140 


THE WiGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


ance of any of his people, and without any sort of change in his 
condition, he gave himself up utterly for lost* The mocks and 
jeers of the Grey Demon and his one-eyed squaw iilled his ears 
all night, and the morning brought him nothing but flat despair. 
He resigned himself to his fate with the resolution of one who, 
however unwilling he might be to perish in such a manner, had 
yet faced death too frequently not to yield him a ready deiiance 
now. 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTEJNUGGEE 


i4i 


CHAPTER VII. 

But hope had not utterly departed from the bosom of Selonee. 
Perhaps the destiny which had befallen himself had made him 
resolve the more earnestly to seek farther into the mystery of that 
which hung above the fate of his friend. The day which saw him 
enter the cabin of Macourah saw him the most miserable man 
alive. The hateful hag, hateful enough as the wife of his friend, 
whose ill treatment was notorious, was now doubly hateful to him 
as his own wife ; and now, when, alone together, she threw aside 
the harsh and termagant features which had before distinguished 
her deportment, and, assuming others of a more amorous com- 
plexion, threw her arms about the neck of the youth and solicited 
his endearments, a loathing sensation of disgust was coupled with 
the hate which had previously possessed his mind. Flinging 
away from her embrace, he rushed out of the lodge with feelings 
of the most unspeakable bitterness and grief, and bending his way 
towards the forest, soon lost sight of the encampment of his people. 
Selonee was resolved on making another effort for the recovery 
of his friend. His resolve went even farther than this. He was 
bent never to return to the doom which had been fastened upon 
him, and to pursue his way into more distant and unknown forests 
— a self-doomed exile — unless he could restore Conattee to the 
nation. Steeled against all those ties of love or of country, which 
at one time had prevailed in his bosom over all, he now surren- 
dered himself to friendship or despair. In Catawba, unless he 
restored Conattee, he could have no hope ; and without Catawba 
he had neither hope nor love. On either hand he saw nothing 
but misery ; but the worst form of misery lay behind him in the 
lodge of Macourah. Buf Macourah was not the person to submit 
to such a determination. She was too well satisfied with the ex- 
change with which fortune had provided her, to suffer its gift to 
be lost so easily ; and when Selonee darted from the cabin in 
such fearful haste, she readily conjectured his determination 


142 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


She hurried after him with all possible speed, little doubting that 
those thunders — could she overtake him — with which she had so 
frequently overawed the pliant Conattee, would possess an effect 
not less influential upon his more youthful successor. Macourah 
was gaunt as a greyhound, and scarcely less fleet of foot. Be- 
sides, she was as tough as a grey-squirrel in his thirteenth year. 
She did not despair of overtaking Selonee, provided she suffered 
him not to know that she was upon his trail. Her first move- 
ments therefore were marked with caution. Having watched his 
first direction, she divined his aim to return to the hunting grounds 
where he had lost or slain his companion ; and these hunting 
grounds were almost as well known to herself as to him. With 
a rapidity of movement, and a tenacity of purpose, which could 
only be accounted for by a reference to that wild passion which 
Selonee ,had unconsciously inspired in her bosom for himself, she 
followed his departing footsteps ; and when, the next $ay, he 
heard her shouts behind him, he was absolutely confounded. But 
it was with a feeling of surprise and not of dissatisfaction that he 
heard her voice. He — good youth — regarding Conattee as one 
of the very worthiest of the Catawba warriors, seemed to have 
been impressed with an idea that such also was the opinion of his 
wife. He little dreamed that she had any real design upon him- 
self ; and believed that, to show her the evidences which were to 
be seen, which led to the fate of her husband,, might serve to con- 
vince her that not only he was not the murderer, but that Conat- 
tee might not, indeed, be murdered at all. He coolly waited her 
approach, therefore, and proceeded to renew his statements, ac- 
companying his narrative with the expression of the hope which 
he entertained of again restoring her husband to herself and the 
nation. But she answered his speech only with upbraidings and 
entreaties ; and when she failed, she proceeded to thump him 
lustily with the wand by which-she had compelled him to follow 
her to the lodge the day before. But Selonee was in no humour 
to obey the laws of the nation now. The feeling of degradation 
which had followed in his mind, from the moment when he left 
the spot where he had stood up for death, having neither fear nor 
shame, was too fresh in his consciousness to suffer him to yield a 
tike acknowledgment to it now ; and though sorely tempted to 


THE ARiVt -CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


143 


pummel the Jezabel in return for the lusty thwacks which she 
had already inflicted upon his shoulders, he forbore, in considera- 
tion of his friend, and contented himself with simply setting for- 
ward on his progress, determined to elude her pursuit by an ex- 
ercise of all his vigour and elasticity. Selonee was hardy as the 
grisly bear, and fleeter than the wild turkey ; and Macourah, 
virago as she was, soon discovered the difference' in the chase 
when Selonee put forth his strength and spirit. She followed 
with all her pertinacity, quickened as it was by an increase of 
fury at that presumption which had ventured to disobey her com- 
mands ; but Selonee fled faster than she pursued, and every ad- 
ditional moment served to increase the space botween them. The 
hunter lost her from his heels at length, and deemed himself for- 
tunate that she was no longer in sight and hearing, when he again 
approached the spot where his friend had so mysteriously disap- 
peared. Here he renewed his search with a painful care and 
minuteness, which the imprisoned Conattee all the while beheld. 
Once more Selonee crawled beneath those sprawling limbs and 
spreading arms that wrapped up in their solid and coarse rinds the 
person of the warrior. Once more he emerged from the spot 
disappointed and hopeless. This he had hardly done when, to 
the great horror of the captive, and the annoyance of Selonee, the 
shrill shrieks and screams of the too well-known voice of Macou- 
rah rang through the forests. Selonee dashed forward as he 
heard the sounds, and when Macourah reached the spot, which 
she did unerringly in following his trail, the youth was already 
out of sight. 

“ I can go no further,” cried the woman — “a curse on him and 
a curse on Conattee, since in losing one I have lost both. I am 
too faint to foHow. As for Selonee, may the one-eyed witch of 
Tustenuggee take him for her dog.” 

With this delicate imprecation, the virago seated herself in a 
state of exhaustion upon the inviting bed of moss which formed 
the lap of Conattee. This she had no sooner done, than the 
branches relaxed their hold upon the limbs of her husband. The 
moment was too precious for delay, and sliding from under her 
with an adroitness and strength which were beyond her powers 
of prevention, and indeed, quite too sudden for any effort at re- 


144 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


sistance. she had the consternation to behold her husband starting 
up in full life before her, and, with the instinct of his former con- 
dition, preparing to take to flight. She cried to him, but he fled 
the faster — she strove to follow him, but the branches which had 
relaxed their hold upon her husband had resumed their contracted 
grasp upon her limbs. The brown bark was already forming 
above her on every hand, and her tongue, allotted a brief term of 
iiberty, was alone free to assail him. But she had spoken but 
few words when the bark encased her jaws, and the ugly thorn 
of the vine which had so distressed Conattee, had taken its place 
at their portals. 





THE ARM-CHAIli OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


145 


CHAPTER YIII. 

Tiie husband looked back but once, when the voice ceasec — 
then, with a shivering sort of joy that his own doom had under- 
gone a termination, which he now felt to be doubly fortunate — 
ne made a wide circuit that he might avoid the fatal neighbour- 
hood, and pushed on in pursuit of his friend, whom his eyes, even 
when he was surrounded in the tree, had followed in his flight. 
It was no easy task, however, to overtake Selonee, flying, as he 
did, from the supposed pursuit of the termagant. Great however 
was the joy of the young warriors when they did encounter, and 
long and fervent was their mutual embrace. Conattee described 
his misfortunes, and related the manner in which he was taken ; 
showed how the bark had encased his limbs, and how the intricate 
magic had even engrossed his knife and the wolf skin which haa 
been the trophy of his victory. But Conattee said not a word o. 
his wife and her entrapment, and Selonee was left in the convic- 
tion that his companion owed his escape from the toils to some 
hidden change in the tyrannical mood of Tustenuggee, or the 
one-eyed woman, his wife. 

“ But the skin and the knife, Conattee, let us not leave them,” 
said Selonee, “let us go back and extricate them from the tree.” 

Conattee showed some reluctance. He soon said, in the wo ds 
of Macbeth, which he did not use however as a quotation, “ Til 
go no more. v But Selonee, who ascribed this reluctance to very 
natural apprehensions of the demon from whose clutches he had 
just made his escape, declared his readiness to undertake the ad- 
venture if Conattee would only point out to his eyes the particu- 
lar excrescence in which the articles were enclosed. When the 
husband perceived that his friend w r as resolute, he made a merit 
of necessity. 

“ If the thing is to be done,” said he, “why should you have 
the risk, I myself will do it. It would be a woman-fear were I 
to shrink from the danger. Let us go.” 

11 


146 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


The process of reasoning by which Conattee came to this de- 
termination was a very sudden one, and one, too, that will not be 
hard to comprehend by every husband in his situation. It was 
his fear that if Selonee undertook the business, an unlucky or 
misdirected stroke of his knife might sever a limb, or remove some 
portions of the bark which did not merit or need removal. Co- 
nattee trembled at the very idea of the revelations which mighl 
follow such an unhappy result. Strengthening himself, there 
fore, with all his energies, he went forward with Selonee to the 
spot, and while the latter looked on and witnessed the operation, 
he proceeded with a nicety and care which amused and sur- 
prised Selonee, to the excision of the swollen scab upon the tree 
in which he had seen his wolf skin encompassed. While he per- 
formed the operation, which he did as cautiously as if it had been 
the extraction of a mote from the eye of a virgin ; the beldam in 
the tree, conscious of all his movements, and at first flattered with 
the hope that he was working for her extrication, maintained the 
most ceaseless efforts of her tongue and limbs, but without avail. 
Her slight breathing, which Conatlee knew where to look for, 
more like the sighs of an infant zephyr than the efforts of a hu- 
man bosom, denoted to his ears an overpowering but fortunately 
suppressed volcano within ; and his heart leaped with a new joy, 
which had been unknown to it for many years before, when he 
thought that he was now safe, and, he trusted, for ever, from any 
of the tortures which he had been fain to endure patiently so long. 
When he had finished the operation by which he had re-obtained 
his treasures, he ventured upon an impertinence which spoke 
surprisingly for his sudden acquisition of confidence ; and looking 
up through the little aperture in the bark, from whence he had 
seen every thing while in the same situation, and from whence 
he concluded she was also suffered to see, he took a peep — a 
quick, quizzical and taunting peep, at those eyes which he had 
not so dared to offend before. He drew back suddenly from the 
contact — so suddenly, indeed, that Selonee, who saw the proceed- 
ing, but had no idea of the truth, thought he had been stung by 
some insect, and questioned him accordingly. 

“ Let us be off, Selonee,” was the hurried answer, “ we have 
nothing to wah for now.” 


THE ARM-CHAIR OF TUSTENUGGEE. 


147 


“ Yes,” replied Selonee, “ and I had forgotten to say to you 
that your wife, Macourah, is on her way in search of you. I left 
her but a little ways behind, and thought to find her here. I sup- 
pose she is tired, however, and is resting by the way.” 

•“ Let her rest,” said Conattee, “ which is an indulgence much 
greater than any she ever accorded me. She will find me out 
soon enough, without making it needful that I should go in search 
of her. Come.” 

Selonee kindly suppressed the history of thd transactions which 
Lad taken place in the village during the time when the hunter 
was supposed to be dead ; but Conattee heard the facts from other 
quarters, and loved Selonee the better for the sympathy he had 
shown, not only in coming again to seek for him, but in not lov- 
ing his wife better than he did himself. They returned to the 
village, and every body was rejoiced to behold the return of the 
hunters. As for the termagant Macourah, nobody but Conattee 
knew her fate; and he, like a wise man, kept his* secret until 
there was no danger of its being made use of to rescue her from 
her predicament. Years had passed, and Conattee had found 
among the young squaws one that pleased him much better than 
the old. He had several children by her, and years and honours 
had alike fallen numerously upon his head, when, one day, one of 
his own sons, while hunting in the same woods, knocked off one 
of the limbs of the Chair of Tustenuggee, and to his great horror 
discovered the human arm which they enveloped. This led him 
to search farther, and limb after limb became detached under the 
unscrupulous action of his hatchet, until the entire but uncon- 
nected members of the old squaw became visible. The lad 
knocked about the fragments with little scruple, never dreaming 
how near was his relation to the form which he treated with so 
little veneration. When he came home to the lodge and told his 
story, Selonee looked at Conattee, but said nothing. The whole 
truth was at once apparent to his mind. Conattee, though he still 
kept his secret, was seized with a sudden fit of piety, and taking 
his sons with him, he proceeded to the spot which he well remem- 
bered, and, gathering up the bleached remains, had them carefully 
buried in the trenches of the tribe. 

It may properly end this story, to say that Selonee wedded thfl 


148 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


sweet girl who, though willing to die herself to prevent him from 
marrying Macourah, yet positively refused to take his life to de- 
feat the same event. It may be well to state, in addition, that 
the only reason Conattee ever had for believing that Selonte had 
not kept his secret from every body, was that Medoree, the young 
wife of the latter, looked on him with a very decided coolness. 
“ But, we will see,” muttered Conattee as he felt this conviction. 
“ Selonee will repent of this confidence, since now it will never be 
possible for him to persuade her to take a seat in the Arm-chair 
of Tustenuggee. Had he been a wise man he would have kept 
his secret, and then there would have been no difficulty in getting 
rid of a wicked wife ” 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


149 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ They talk,” said the stranger somewhat abruptly “ They 
talk of the crimes of wealthy people, and in high life. No doubt 
there are very great and many wrong doers among the rich. 
People in possession of much wealth, and seeing how greatly it is 
worshipped, will very naturally presume upon and abuse its pow- 
ers ; — but it is not among the rich only, and in the great city, 
that these things happen. The same snake, or one very much like 
it, winds his way into the wigwam and the cabin — and the pool 
silly country girl is as frequently the victim, as the dashing lady 
of the city and city fashions. For that matter she is the more 
easily liable to imposition, as are all persons who occupy insula- 
ted positions, and see little of the .great struggles of busy life. 
The planter and the farmer who dwell in the remote interior 
find the face of the visitor too interesting, to scrutinize it very 
closely. A pleasant deportment, a specious outside, a gentle and 
attractive manner, will win their way in our forest world, without 
rendering necessary those formal assurances, that rigid introduc- 
tion, and those guaranties of well known persons, which the citi- 
zen requires before you partake of his bread and salt. With us, 
on the contrary, we confide readily ; and the cunning stranger, 
whom other communities have expelled with loathing, rendered 
cautious and conciliatory by previous defeat, adopts the subtlety 
of the snake, and winds his way as artfully as that reptile, when 
he comes among us. We have too many sad stories of this sort. 
Yours is one of them. This poor girl, Ellen Ramsay, was 
abused thus, as I have shown you, by this »i>oundrel, Stanton. 
But finish your narrative. She had a short time of it, and a sad 
one, I do not doubt, with a creature so heartless and so vile,” 


150 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


“ But a poor eleven months ; and the change was too rapid,” 
said young Atkins, “ not to let us see that she was any thing but 
happy. To-day, the gayest of all God’s creatures, as much like 
a merry bird in spring-time, singing over its young ; — to-morrow 
as gloomy and miserable as if there was neither song nor sunshine 
m God's whole earth.” 

“ Poor thing !” exclaimed Walter. 

“ It was the shortest life,” said the other, “ to begin so well, that 
I ever saw, and the story which you have heard is pretty much 
the truth.” 

“But the funeral?” said Walter. 

“ Ah ! that was not exactly as you heard it,” was the reply of 
Atkins. “ I was at the funeral of Ellen Ramsay, as indeed was 
very nearly all the village, and I could refer you to twenty who 
will tell you the matter just as it occurred. In the first place, it 
is not true that any body expected Robert Anderson to be present. 
He sent no message of any kind to Stanton. It was very well 
known that he was sick — actually in bed, and had been so for 
more than a week before the death of Ellen. People almost 
thought they might go off together. There was a sort of sympa- 
thy between them, though I don’t think, from the hour of her un- 
lucky marriage, that the eyes of the two ever met, till they met 
in the world of spirits — unless it were, indeed, in their dreams. 
But they seemed to pine away, both of them, about the same time, 
and though he stood it longest, he did not outlast her much. 
When she died, as I tell you, he was very feeble and in bed. 
Nobody ever expected him to leave it alive, and least of all that 
he should leave it then, to stand among the people at her grave. 
The circumstances of her marriage with Stanton, were too noto. 
rious, and too much calculated to embitter his feelings and his 
peace, to make it likely that he would be present at such a scene. 
She had cast him off, slightingly, to give a preference to the more 
showy stranger, and she had spoken to him in a manner not soon 
to be forgiven by a man of sensibility. But he did forgive — that 
I know — and his love for Ellen was unimpaired to the last. She 
did not doubt this, when she married Stanton, though she expressed 
herself so. That was only to find some excuses to him, if not to 
her own conscience for her conduct. I’m sure she bitterly re- 


. THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


151 


pented of all before very long. She was just the girl to do wrong 
in a hurry, and be sorry for it the next minute.’’ • 

“But the funeral?” said Walter. 

“Ah! true — the funeral. Well, as 1 was telling yo.u, when 
the coffin was brought round to the burial place — you know the 
spot, among a thick grove of stunted oaks, and the undergrowth 
is always kept down by old Ramsay — who should come out from 
behind one of the largest old trees, but Robert Anderson. He 
was pale as a ghost, and his limbs trembled and tottered as he 
walked, but he came forward as resolutely as if he felt no pain 
or weakness. Stanton started when he saw him. He never ex- 
pected his presence, I assure you. Every eye saw his agitation 
as Robert came forward ; and I tell you, there was not a person 
present who did not see, as well as myself, that the husband of 
the poor girl looked much paler at that moment than her sick 
lover. Robert did not seem to see Stanton, or to mind him as he 
came forward; indeed, he did not seem to see any body. His 
eyes were fixed only on the coffin, which was carried by me, 
Ralph Mason, Dick Rawlins, and I think Hiram Barker. He 
did not shed a tear, which we all wondered at, for all of us ex- 
pected to see him crying like any child, because we knew how 
soft-hearted he always was, and how fond he had been of Ellen. 
At first, we thought his not crying was because of his anger at 
being so ill-treated, which was natural enough ; but what he said 
afterwards soon did away with that notion. He came close to my 
side, and put his hand on the lid of the coffin near the name, and 
though he said not a single word to us, we seemed to understand 
that he meant we should stop till he read it. We did stop, and 
he then read the plate aloud, something in this manner — ‘ Ellen : 
— and then he stopped a little as he came to the word ‘ Stanton’— 
and you could see a deep red flush grow out upon his cheek and 
forehead, and then he grew pale as death — and held upon the 
coffin as if to keep himself from falling — then he seemed to mus- 
ter up strength, and he read on, in very deliberate and full ac- 
cents, as if he had thrown all his resolution into the effort — ‘ El- 
len Stanton !’ These words he repeated twice, and then he passed 
on to the rest — ‘ Wife of George Stanton, born April 7, 1817. 
Diep,’ — H ere he stopped again, poor fellow! as if to catch his 


152 THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 

breath. He only gasped when he tried to go on with the reading. 
He could only say — 1 Died. Died !’ and there he stopped like a 
man choking. By this time, Stanton came up close to him and 
looked at us, as if to say ‘ Why don’t you go forward — why do 
you suffer him to stop you’ — but he said nothing. Robert did not 
seem to mind or to notice him, but, with another effort, recovering 
his strength and voice, he read on to the end — ‘ Died March 27 , 

1836 AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS AND NINETEEN 

days.’ Old John Ramsay by this time came up, and stood be- 
tween him and Stanton. He looked up from the coffin, first at 
one and then at the other — and said quietly — without any appear- 
ance of anger or passion — 

“ This, Mr. Ramsay, is your daughter, Ellen — she was to have 
been my wife — she was engaged to me by her own promise, and 
you gave your consent to our marriage. Is not this true, Mr. 
Ramsay ?” 

“ True,” said the old man very mildly, but with a deep sigh 
that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul ; — “ but you know, 
Robert. ” 

Then it was that Robert seemed to lose himself for a moment. 
His eye brightened with indignation and his speech came quick. 

“ I know that she is here /” he exclaimed — “ here, in her coffin, 
dead to you, your daughter — dead to me, my wife — your Ellen ! 
my Ellen ! — My Ellen — my poor Ellen !” And then he sobbed 
bitterly upon the coffin. I believe that most of the persons present 
— and all bad crowded round us — sobbed too. But I could not 
see them, for my own heart was overflowing. The interruption 
did not continue long. Robert was the first to recover himself. 
He had always a right idea of what was proper ; and no doubt, 
just then, he felt, that, according to the world’s way of thinking, 
ne was doing wrong in stopping the dead in its last progress to the 
place of rest. He raised up his head from the coffin plate, and 
*;aid to us, speaking very slowly, for his breath seemed only to 
come in sobs, and then after great efforts — 

“ Do not think, my friends, when I speak of the pledges Ellen 
Ramsay made to me, that I am come here to utter any reproaches 
of the dead, or to breathe a single syllable of complaint against the 
blessed creature, who was always a sweet angel, now looking up 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


153 


in heaven. God forbid that I should speak, or that you should 
hear, any harm of a woman that I have always looked upon as 
the purest and truest-hearted creature under the sun. No ! 
in telling you' of this pledge, I come here only to acquit her of 
any wrong, or evil thought, or action, when she ceased to think it 
binding upon her. It is to say to you at her grave, for you all 
knew that w r e were to be married, that, as I never gave her any 
reason for believing me to be false, or more unworthy of her heart 
than when she promised it to me, so, also, I believe that nothing 
but some such persuasion could have made her deprive me of it. 
While I acquit her, therefore, of having done me any intentional 
injustice, I tell you, in the presence of her heavenly spirit, which 
knows the truth of what I declare, that she has been abused by 
some false slanderer, to do me wrong, and herself wrong, and 
to — ” 

By this time Stanton put in, and stopped whatever more Rob- 
ert had to say. He had been getting more and more angry as 
Robert went on, and when he came to that solemn part about the 
slanderer, and lifted his hands to heaven and looked upward with 
the tears just beginning to come into his eyes, as if he did really 
see the spirit of Ellen at the moment above him, then Stanton got 
quite furious. Those words clinched him in the sore part of his 
soul ; and he made round the coffin towards where Robert stood, 
and doubled his- fists, and spoke hoarsely, as if he was about to 
choke. 

“ And who do you mean slandered you to her ?” he cried to 
Robert, “ who ! who !” 

His face was as black as night, and his features, usually so 
soft and pleasing to the eyes of the young women, now looked 
rather like those of a devil than of a mortal man. We thought he 
would have torn the poor young man to pieces, but Robert did not 
seem at all daunted. I suppose if we had not been there, and 
had not interfered so quickly, there would have been violence ; 
and violence upon a frail, dying creature like Robert, would have 
been the most shocking cruelty. But Maxcy jumped in between 
them, and John Ramsay, Ellen’s youngest brother, stepped for- 
ward also, and we all cried “ shame,” and this drove Stanton back, 
but he still looked furious and threatening, and seemed to wish 


154 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


for nothing more than to take Robert by the throat. Nobody 
seemed to mind him less than the poor fellow who had most rea- 
son to fear. Robert had a bold and fearless spirit, and there was a 
time, before he grew sickly and religious, when he would have 
grappled with him for death and life before the altar itself. But 
he was now subdued. He did not seem to mind his enemy, or 
indeed, any thing, but the coffin on which he hung. He did not, 

I really think, hear Stanton speaking at all, though, for a few' 
moments, the fellow bullied pretty loud, and not a syllable that he 
said escaped any body else. His soul seemed to be in the coffin. 
His eyes seemed to try to pierce the heavy lid of pine, and the 
dark crape, and the shroud ; and one would think, from the eager 
and satisfied gaze, that he had succeeded in doing so. No doubt 
his mind deluded him, and he thought so — for you could hear him 
whispering — “ Ellen ! dear Ellen !” Then he gave way to us, 
and reading the plate, he said — “ But eighteen — but eighteen. 
But. — it is all well now ! all well ! ; ’ He suffered us then to go 
forward, and followed close, and made no objection, and said nc 
more words. While we let the coffin down, he stood so nigh, tha 
the earth shelved with him, and he would have gone in with it, 
for he made no resistance, if we had not caught him in our arms 
and dragged him from the brink. But we could not soon get him 
from the spot. When all was done, he did not seem to mind that 
the rest were going, but stood looking down as earnestly as if he 
could still read the writing through six feet of earth. Stanton, 
too, did not seem willing to go, but we very well knew it was for 
no love he had for the poor girl that he wished to remain ; and 
Maxcy whispered to me that he would bring him off- before he 
left the ground, for fear he might do some harm to Robert, who 
was no fighter, and was too feeble to stand one so strong. This 
he did, and after he was gone I tried to get Robert away also. It 
was some time before I did so, and then it seemed he went with 
me only to get rid of my presence, for he was back at the grave 
as soon as night set in, and there he might be found every even- 
ing at the same hour, just about sunset, for several months after- • 
wards — for he lingered strangely — until they brought him to sleep 
beside her. Thougt sick, and pining away fast, the poor fellow 
never let an evening go by, whatever weather it might be, with 


THE SNAKE JO F THE CABIN. 


155 


but paying the grave a visit ; and, one day, perhaps two weeks 
after the funeral, old Mrs. Anderson called me into her cottage as 
I was riding by, and said she would show me something. She 
took me up into her son’s room, a little chamber in the loft, and 
what should it be but a head-board, that the dying lad had sawed 
out with his own hands, from a thick plank, and had smoothed, 
and planed, and painted, all in secret, so that he could print on it 
an inscription for the poor girl’s grave; and you would be sur- 
prised to see how neatly he had worked it all. The poor old wo- 
man cried bitterly all the time, but you could still see how proud 
she was of her son. She showed me his books — he had more thar 
a hundred — and she sighed from the bottom of her heart when she 
told me it was the books that has made him sickly. 

“ But he will read,” she said, “ say all I can ; though he know? 
it’s a-doing him no good. ‘ Ah, mother,’ he says, when I tei 
him about it, £ though it may shorten my life to read, it wil 
shorten my happiness not to read, and I have too little happiness 
now left me to be willing to lose any of it.’ And when he speaks 
so,” said the old woman, “ I can’t blame him, for I know it’s all 
true. But I blame myself, Mr. Atkins, for you see it was all of 
my doing that he got so many books, and is so fond of them, 
loved to see him learning, and made him read to me so constantly 
of an evening, and it did my heart so much good to think that 
one day my Robert might be a great lawyer, or a parson, for I 
could see how much smarter he was than all the other boys of 
the village — and so I never looked at his pale cheeks, and had no 
guess how poorly he was getting, till, all of a sudden, he was 
laid up, on my hands, and pining away every hour, as you now 
see him. Things looked better for a while when he got fond of 
Ellen Ramsay, and she of him. But that Stanton, ever since he 
came among us, Robert has. gone backward, and I shan’t wonder 
if it’s not very long before he wants his own tombstone !” 

Poor old woman ! I saw in a corner, half hidden behind an 
old trunk in the youth’s chamber, what it was evident she had 
not seen, a head board, the very fellow to that which he had been 
making for Ellen ! — but I said nothing to her at the time. When 
they were found after his death — for he said nothing of them 
while he lived — they were both neatly finished, with a simple but 


156 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


proper inscription. On his own was but one line above his name 
It was this — 


“ Mine was wo, but mine is hope. 

Robert Anderson” 

m 

“You tell me of a remarkable young man,” said Walter— 
“ and he was but twenty when he died ?” 

“ No more !” 

“We will go and look upon his grave.” 

“ You will see the head board there, but that for Ellen was 
never put up — Stanton would not allow it.” 

“ Ah ! but we shall mend that. I will pluck that scoundrel’s 
comb. Is the head-board preserved ?” 

“ It is : his mother keeps it in his chamber, standing up beside 
nis little book-case ; but see, yonder is Stanton now. He is on 
his way to Ramsay’s house. They do not live together. He 
boards at a little farm-yard about a mile from the village. They 
say that there has been a quarrel between him and his brother- 
in-law, young John Ramsay, something about his sister’s prop- 
erty. There are eleven negroes which were owned by young 
John and herself, in their own right, from the grand-mother’s gift, 
which they have suffered the old man to work until now. Stan- 
ton wants a division, and young John tried to persuade him not 
to touch them till his death, which must happen before long, he 
sharing as before from the crop. But Stanton persists, and the 
young fellow did not stop to tell him that he thought him a cruelly 
base fellow. This is the report. It is very certain that they are 
separate now, and there is a difference between them.” 

“ Very likely on the score of the negroes. But we will save 
them to the old man, and drive him from a spot which he had 
made wretched.” 

“ Can you do this ? Are your proofs sufficient ?” 

“ Ample.” 

“ You are yourself a lawyer ?” 

“ Yes ! But I shall have the assistance, if necessary, of Col. 
Dawson, whom probably you know.” 

“ A first rate gentleman, and one of our best lawyers.” 

“ 1 bring letters to him — have already seen him on the subject, 


THE SNAKE OF THE CAB [N 


157 


and he concurs with me as to the conclusiveoess of my proofs. 
Would I had been with you a year ago. Could I have traced 
him, this poor girl had not been his victim. I should at least 
have driven the snake from this one cabin.” 

“ Yes, if you had come a year ago, poor fallen would have 
been saved. But nothing could have saved the poor young man. 
The rot was in the heart of the tree.” 

“ Yet !” said the other, putting his hand upon the arm of Atkins 
— “ though the tree perished, it might have been kept green to 
the last. Some hurts might have been spared it. The man 
who died in hope, might not have found it necessary to declare, at 
the last moment, that he had utterly lived in wo. Yes — a little 
year ago, we might have done much for both parties.” 

“ You will do great good by your coming now. The poor old 
man loves his negroes as he does his children. They say he 
looks upon the giving up the eleven to be sold, like a breaking up 
of the establishment. His son says it will hurry him to the grave. 
This was what he said to Stanton, which led to the quarrel. 
Stanton sneered at the young man, and he, being pretty passion- 
ate, blazed out at him in a way that pretty soon silenced the fel- 
low.” 

“ This class of reptiles are all, more or less, cowards. We must 
not burn daylight, as, if they consent to a division, the scoundrel 
may make off with his share. Let us go forward,” continued 
the speaker, with a show of feeling for which Atkins could not 
well account — “ I long to tread upon the viper — to bruise his 
head, and above all to tear the fangs from his jaws. You 
will, if Stanton be there, draw the old man aside and intro- 
duce me to him, with some quiet hint of what I may be able 
to do.” 

“ You say you have the papers with you ?” 

“ Ay, ay, — here,” — striking his bosom — “ I have here that 
which shall confound him ! Fear not ! I do not deceive you. Al 
least I cannot deceive myself. I too have wrongs that need 
avenging — I and mine ! 1 and mine ! Remember, I am Mr. 
Jones from Tennessee — I must surprise and confound the fellow, 
and would see how the land lies before I declare myself,” 


J58 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER II. 

Young John Ramsay was in the front piazza as they entered 
the little farm-yard. He was alone, and pacing the floor in evi- 
dent agitation. His brow was dark and discontented, and he met 
the' salutations of his visitors with the manner of a person who 
is ill pleased with any witnesses of his disquiet. But he was 
civil, and when Atkins asked after his father, he led the way into 
the house, and there they discovered the old man and George 
Stanton in close and earnest conversation. Several papers were 
before them, and Stanton held the pen in his hand. The tears 
stood in old Ramsay’s eyes. His thin white hairs, which fell, 
glossy and long, upon his shoulders, gave a benign and patri- 
archal expression to a face that was otherwise marked with the 
characters of benevolence and sensibility. He rose at the ap- 
pearance of the visitors. Stanton did not, but looked up with 
the air of one vexed at interruption in the most interesting mo- 
ment. Young Ramsay, to whom the stranger had been introduced 
by Atkins, introduced him in turn to his father, but to his father 
only. He gave no look to the spot where Stanton was seated. 
Atkins took the old man into another room, leaving the three re- 
maining in the apartment. Stanton appeared to busy himself 
over his papers. Young Ramsay requested the stranger to be 
seated, and drew a chair for himself beside him. There was no 
conversation. The youth looked down upon the floor, in abstract 
contemplation, while the stranger, unobserved by either, employed 
himself in a most intense watch of the guilty man. The latter 
looked up and met this survey seemingly with indifference. He 
too was thinking of matters which led him somewhat from the 
present company. He resumed his study of the papers before 
him, and scarcely noticed the return of old Ramsay to the room. 
His appearance was the signal to the son to go out, and resume 
his solitary promenade in the piazza. The old man promptly 
approached the stranger, whose hand lie took with a cordial preg 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


159 


sure tliat proved how well Atkins had conveyed his suggestion. 
There was a bright hopefulness in his old eyes, which, had it 
been seen by Stanton, might have surprised him, particularly as, 
just before, they had been overflowing with tears and clouded 
with despondency. He was, however, still too busy in his calcu- 
lations, and possibly, in his own hopes, to note any peculiar 
change in the aspect or manner of his father-in-law. But when 
some minutes had passed, consumed by the old man and the 
stranger, in the most common-place conversation — when he heard 
the former institute long inquiries into the condition of crops in 
Tennessee — the value of grain, the modes of cultivation, the 
price of lands and negroes ; — the impatient son-in-law began to 
show his restiveness. He took up and threw down his papers, 
turned from them to the company, from the company to the pa- 
pers again, renewed his calculations, again dismissed them, and 
still without prompting the visitor to bring to a close a visit seem- 
ingly totally deficient in object and interest, but which, to his 
great annoyance, all parties besides himself seemed desirous to 
prolong. At length, as with a desperate determination, he turned 
to the old man and said — 

« Sir — Mr. Ramsay, you are aware of my desire to bring this 
business to a close at once.” 

The words reached the ears of young Ramsay, who now ap- 
peared at the door. 

“ Father, pray let it be as this person desires. Give him all 
which the law will allow — give him more, if need be, and let 
him depart. Make any arrangement about the negroes that you 
please, without considering me — only let him leave us in out 
homes at peace !” 

“ I am sorry to disturb the peace of any home,” said Stanton. 
“ but am yet to know that to claim my rights is doing so. I ask 
nothing but what is fair and proper. My wife, if 1 understand 
it, had an equal right with Mr. John Ramsay, the younger, to 
certain negroes, eleven in number, namely, Zekiel, Abram, Ben, 
Bess, Maria, Susannah, Bob, Harry. Milly, Bainbridge and Nell, 
with their increase. This increase makes the number seventeen. 
But you have never denied the facts, and I repeat to you the 


160 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


proposition which I have already made to you, to divide the prop- 
erty into two equal parts, thus :” — 

Here he read from the strips of paper before him, enumerating 
the negroes in two lots — this done, he proceeded : 

“ I am willing that your son should have the first choice of 
these lots. I will take the other. I am prepared to listen to 
any other arrangement for a division, rather than be subject 
to any delay by a reference to the law. I have no wish to 
compel the sale of the property, as that might distress you.” 

“ Distress !” exclaimed the young man — “ spare your sym- 
pathy if you please, “i consent to your first arrangement. Nay, 
sir, you shall choose, first, of the lots as divided by yourself. My 
simple wish now, sir, is to leave you wholly without complaint.” 

“ But, my son ” — began the old man. 

“Pray, my father, let it be as I have said. We shall never 
have an end of it otherwise. The division is a tolerably equal 
one, and if there be any loss it is mine.” 

The old man folded his hands upon his lap and looked to the 
stranger. He, meanwhile, maintained a keen and eager watch 
upon the features of Stanton. It could be seen that his lip quiv- 
ered and there was in his eye an expression of exultation and 
scorn which, perhaps, none perceived but young Atkins. Stan- 
ton, meanwhile, was again busy with his papers. 

“ It is admitted also,” the latter continued, “ that I have a right 
to one half of a tract of uncleared land, lying on the Tombeckbe, 
containing six hundred and thirty acres, more or less ; to one 
half of a small dwelling house in Linden, and to certain house- 
hold stud', crockery, plate and kitchen ware. Upon these 1 am 
prepared to place a low estimate, so that the family may still re- 
tain them, and the value may be given me in negro property. I 
value the land, which I am told is quite as good as any in the coun- 
try, at $5 an acre — the house and lot at $500 — and the plate, 
crockery, kitchen ware, etc., at $250 more. I make the total of 
my share, at these estimates, to be $2075 — we will say $2000 — 
and I am willing to fake in payment of this amount, the four fel- 
lows, Zekiel, Bob, Henry and Ben — named in one lot, or the two 
fellows, Abram and Bainbridge, and the two women, Milly and 
Maria, with their three children, named in the other parcel.” 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN 


161 


“ You are extremely accommodating , 55 said young Ramsay bit- 
terly, “ but I prefer that we should sell the land on the Tombeckbe, 
the lot in Linden, and the crockery, plate and kitchen stuff — unless 
you prefer that these last should be divided. This arrangement will 
occasion you some delay in getting your money, but it will save 
me much less loss than I should suffer by your estimates. Permit 
me to say that of the negroes in the lot which you may leave me, 
you shall not have a hair, and I would to God it were in my 
power to keep the rest, by any sacrifice, from your possession. ” 

“ No doubt you do, sir — but your wishes are not the law. I 
demand nothing from you but what is justice, and justice I will 
have. My rights are clear and ample. You do not, I trust, pro- 
pose to go to law to keep me out of my wife’s property.” 

“ To law !” exclaimed the young man with indignation. He 
then strode fiercely across the floor and confronted Stanton, who 
had now risen. The strife in his soul was showing itself in 
storm upon his countenance, when the stranger from Tennessee 
rose, and placed himself between them. 

“ Stay, my friend — let me speak a moment. I have a question 
to ask of Mr. Stanton.” 

“ You, sir ” — said Stanton — “ by what right do you interfere ?” 

“By the right which every honest man possesses to see that 
there is no wrong done to his neighbour, if he can prevent it. 
You are making a demand upon Mr. Ramsay, for certain prop- 
erty which you claim in right of your wife. Now, sir, let me 
ask which of your wives it is, on whose account you claim.” 

The person thus addressed recoiled as if he had been struck 
by an adder. A deep flush passed over his face, succeeded by an 
ashen paleness. He tried to speak, stammered, and sunk para- 
lyzed back into his chair. 

“ What, sir, can you say nothing ? Your rights by your wives 
ought to be numerous. You should have some in every State in 
the Union.” 

“ You are a liar and a slanderer,” exclaimed the criminal, 
rising from his seat, and, with a desperate effort, confronting his 
accuser — Shaking his fist at him, he cried— “You shall prove 
what you say ! You shall prove what you say !” 

12 


162 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


The other coldly replied, while a smile of scorn passed ovei 
his lips — “ I am here for that very purpose.” 

“ You ! — and who are you ?” demanded the accused, once 
again stammering and showing trepidation. 

“ A man ! one who has his hand upon your throat, and will stifle 
you in the very first struggle that you propose to make. Sit down, 
sir — sit down all — this business is opened before us, and we will 
go to it as to a matter of business. You, sir” — to Stanton, “ will 
please school your moods and temper, lest it be worse for you. 
I f is only by behaving with proper modesty under a proper sense 
of* yorr position and danger, that you can hope to escape from the 
sharpest clutches of the law.” 

“You shall not bully me — I am not the man to submit ” 

“ You are ; 9 said the other, sternly interrupting him — “ I tell 
you, William Ragin, alias Richard Weston, alias Thomas Stuke- 
ly, alias Edward Stanton — you are the man to submit to all that 
I shall say to you, to all that I shall exact from you, in virtue of 
what I know of you, and in virtue of what you are.” 

The sweat poured in thick streams from the brow of the crimi- 
nal. The other proceeded. 

“ I am not a bully. It is not by swagger that I hope to put you 
down, or to punish you. On the contrary, I come here prepared 
to prove all that I assert, satisfactorily before a court of justice. 
It is for you to determine whether, by your insolence and mad- 
ness, you will incur the danger of a trial, or whether you will 
submit quietly to what we ask, and leave the country. I lake 
for granted that you are no fool, though, in a moral point of view, 
your career would show you to be an enormous one, since vice 
like yours is almost conclusive against all human policy, and 
might reasonably be set dowri by a liberal judgment, as in some 
degree a wretched insanity. If I prove to you that I can prove to 
others what I now assert, will you be ready, without more ado, to 
yield your claims here, and every where, and fly the country V 9 

“You can prove nothing: you know nothing. I defy you.” 

“ Beware ! I am no trifler, and, by the God of heaven, I tell you, 
that, were I to trust my own feelings, you should swing upon the 
gallows, or be shut in from life, by a worse death, in the peniten- 
tif v, all your days. I can bring you to either, if I will it, but 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


163 


there are considerations, due to the feelings of others, which 
prompt me to the gentler course I have indicated. It is enough 
for me that you have been connected by the most solemn ties with 
Maria Lacy. Her wishes and her memory are sacred in my 
sight, and these move me to spave the villain whom my own per- 
sonal wrongs would prompt me to drag to the gallows. You see 
how the matter stands ! Speak !” 

“You then — you are ” 

“ Henry Lamar, of Georgia, the cousin, and once the betrothed 
of Maria Lacy.” 

There was a slight tremour in the speaker’s voice, as he made 
this answer ; — but his soul was very firm. He continued : “ I 
complain not of your wrong to me. It is enough that I am pre- 
pared to avenge it, and I frankly tell you, I am half indifferent 
whether you accede to my proposition or not. Your audacity here 
has aroused a feeling in me, which leaves it scarcely within my 
power to offer you the chances of escape. I renew the offer, while 
I am yet firm to do it. Leave the country — leave all the bounds, 
all the territories of the United States — and keep aloof from them ; 
for, as surely as I have power to pursue, and hear of your pres- 
ence in any of them, so surely shall I hunt you out with shot and 
halter, as I would the reptile that lurks beside the pathway, or 
the savage beast that harbours in the thicket.” 

The speaker paused, resumed his seat, and, by a strong effort 
of will, maintained a calm silence, looking sternly upon the crimi- 
nal. Violent passions were contending in the breast of the latter. 
His fears were evidently aroused, but his cupidity was active. It 
was clear that he apprehended the danger — it was equally clear 
that he was loth to forego his grasp upon the property of his last 
victim. He was bewildered, and, more in his confusion than be- 
cause of any thought or courage — he once more desperately de- 
nied the^charges made against him. 

“ You are a bold man,” said he to the stranger, affecting cool- 
ness — “ considering you deal in slander. You may impose upon 
these, but it is only because they would believe any thing agains* 
me now. But you have no proofs. I defy you to produce any 
thing to substantiate one of your charges.” 

'* Fool !” said the other coolly, “ I have but to call in the slaves 


164 


TBri WIGWAM AND 'I HE CABIN. 


— to have you stripped to the buff, and to discover and display to 
the world the marks upon your body, to which your wife swore 
in open court in New York State, on the trial of Reuben Moore, 
confounded in identity with yourself as William Ragin. Here is 
ffie report of the trial. Moore was only saved, so close was the 
general resemblance between you, as the scar of the scythe was 
not apparent upon his leg — to which all parties swore as certain- 
ly on yours. Are you willing that we should now examine your 
left leg and foot ?” 

“ My foot is as free from scar as yours ; but I will not suffer 
myself to be examined.” 

“ Did it need, we should not ask you. But it does not need. 
We have the affidavit of Samuel Fisher, to show that he detected 
the scar of the scythe upon your leg, while bathing with you at 
Crookstone’s mill pond, that he asked you how you got such a 
dreadful cut, and that you were confused, but said that it was a 
scythe cut. This he alleged of you under your present name of 
Stanton. Here, sir, is a copy of the affidavit. Here also is the 
testimony of James Greene, of Liberty county, Geo., who knew 
you there as the husband of Maria Lacy. He slept with you one 
night at Berry’s house on the way to the county court house. 
You played poker with a party of five consisting of the said Greene, 
of Jennings, Folker and Stillman — their signatures are all here. 
You got drunk, quarrelled with Folker and Stillman, whom you 
accused of cheating you, were beaten by them severely, and so 
bruised that it was necessary you should be put to bed, and bath- 
ed with spirits. When stripped for this purpose, while you lay 
unconscious, the scythe cut on your leg, and a large scar from a 
burn upon your right arm, to both of which your wife, Elizabeth 
Ragin, swore in New York, with great particularity — as appears 
in that reported case— were discovered, and attracted the atten- 
tion of all present.” 

“ Man or devil !” exclaimed the criminal in desparation, — “ By 
what means have you contrived to gather these damnable proofs !” 

“ You admit them then ?” 

“ I admit nothing. I defy them, and you, and the devil. Let 
me go. I wdl hear nothing more — see nothing farther. As for 
you, John Ramsay, let me ask, am I to have any of my wife’s 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN 


165 


property ? Let me have it, and I* leave the cursed country for- 
ever.” 

John Ramsay, the younger, was about to reply, when the 
stranger silenced him. 

“ Stay ! You leave not this spot, unless with my consent, or 
in the hands of the sheriff. He is here in readiness. Are you 
willing that I should call him in ? I am serious ! There must 
be no trifling. Here are proofs of your identity with William 
Ragin, who married Elizabeth Simpson, of Minden, Connecticut; 
— with Richard Weston, who married Sarah Gooch, of Raleigh, 
N. C. ; — with Thomas Stukely, who married with Maria Lacy, 
of Liberty county, Geo. ; — with Edward Stanton, now before us, 
who married with Ellen Ramsay, of Montgomery county, Ala- 
bama. Of these wretched wives whom you have wronged and 
dishonoured, two of them are still living. I do not stipulate for 
your return to either. They are sufficiently fortunate to be rid 
of you forever. But this I insist upon, that you leave the coun- 
try. As for taking the property of this wife or that, you must 
consider yourself particularly fortunate that you escape the hal- 
ter. You can take nothing. Your fate lies in these papers.” 

In an instant the desperate hands of the criminal had clutched 
the documents where the other laid them down. He clutched 
them, and sprang towards the door, but a single blow from the 
powerful fist of young John Ramsay brought him to the floor. The 
stranger quietly repossessed himself of the papers.” 

“ You are insane, William Ragin,” he remarked coolly — 
these are all copies of the originals, and even were they origi- 
nals, their loss would be of little value while all the witnesses are 
living. They are brought for your information— to show you on 
what a perilous point you stand — and have been used only to base 
the warrant upon which has been already issued for your arrest. 
That warrant is even now in this village in the hands of the sher- 
iff of the county. I have but to say that you are the man whom 
he must arrest under it, and he does his duty. You are at my 
mercy. I see that you feel that. Rise and sign this paper and 
take your departure. If, after forty-eight hours, you are found 
east of the Tombeckbe, you forfeit all the chances which it afford? 
vou of escape. Rise, sir, and sign. I have no more words for you.” 


166 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


The criminal did as he was commanded — passively, as one in 
a stupor. The stranger then waved him to the door, and he took 
his departure without any more being spoken on either side. 
When he was gone — 

“ These papers,” said Lamar, to old John Ramsay, “ are yours. 
I leave, them for your protection from this scoundrel. The proofs 
are all conclusive, and, with his re-appearance, you have but to 
seek the sheriff and renew the warrant.” 

The old man clasped the hands of the stranger and bedewed 
them with tears. 

“ You will stay with us while you are here. We owe you too 
much to suffer it otherwise. We have no other way cf thanking 
you.” 

“ I have another day’s business here,” said Lamar, “ and will 
cheerfully partake your hospitality for that time. For the pres- 
ent I must leave you. I have an engagement with Mr. Atkins.” 

The engagement with Atkins, led the stranger to the grave of 
poor Ellen Ramsay and to that of Robert Anderson. They next 
visited the cottage of the widow Anderson, and obtained her con- 
sent to the use of the head board which the devoted youth had 
framed and inscribed, while himself dying, for the grave .of his 
beloved. The next day was employed, with the consent of old 
Ramsay, in putting it up — an occasion which brought the villa- 
gers together as numerously as the burial of the poor girl had 
done. The events of the day had taken wind — the complete ex- 
posure of the wretch who had brought ruin and misery into the 
little settlement, was known to all, and deep were the impreca- 
tions of all upon his crime, and warm the congratulations at a 
development, which saved the venerable father from being spoiled 
and ieft in poverty in his declining years. But there is yet a 
finish to our story — another event, perhaps necessary to its finish, 
which, as it was the offspring of another day, we must reserve 
for another cnapter. 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


16 ? 


CHAPTER III 

That night, while the little family at Ramsay’s were sitting 
over their evening meal, Abram, one of the plantation negroes, 
appeared at the door of the apartment, and abruptly addressed 
young Ramsay after the following fashion : 

“ Look ya, Mass Jack, I want for see you out ya a minute.” 

Abram was the driver of the plantation — a sort of superin- 
tendant of details. . He was a faithful negro, such as is to be 
found on every long established plantation at the South— shrewd, 
cool, sensible — perhaps forty years of age — honest, attentive to 
his business, and, from habit, assuming the interest which he 
managed to be entirely his own. His position gave him conse- 
quence, which he felt and asserted, but never abused. A trick 
of speaking very much what was uppermost in his mind, was the 
fruit of a just consciousness of duties well performed, leaving him 
in no fear of any proper authority. Young Ramsay rose instantly 
and obeyed the summons. With some little mystery in his man- 
ner, Abram conducted the youth from the piazza into the yard, 
and thence into the shadow of one of the gigantic shade trees by 
which the house was literally embowered. Here, looking around 
him with the air of one anxious neither to be seen nor overheard, 
he thrust a paper into the hands of John Ramsay wit K this in 
quiry — 

“ Dis ya money, Mass Jack, — good money ?” 

“ I will tell you when I look at it by the candle. Why ?— ■ 
where did you get it ?” 

“ You look at ’em first — I tell you all ’bout ’em arterward. ’ 

John did as was required, returned and reported the bank no' e— 
for it was such, and for twenty dollars — to be utterly worthle **■ 
that, in short, of a broken bank. 

“ I bin tink so,” said the negro. 

“ Where did you get it, Abram ?” 

M Who you speck gib me, Mass Jack ?” 


168 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


“ I don’t know !” 

“ Who but Mass Ned Stanton..” 

“ Ha ! — why — when did he give you this money ?” 

“ To-day — when you bin all busy wid de tomb stone of young 
Missis. He come by de old creek field, call me out, say I must 
come to em in de wood, and den he say to me dat he sorry foi 
see me ya working for Mossa. Him will help me git off work — 1 
shall be free man, if I will only go wid him, and bring off many 
of the brack people as I kin. He promise me heap of tings, gil 
me ’nuff tobacco for las’ a mont’, gib me knife — see dis ya — and 
dis money which you say no good money. I bin speck ’em for 
bad when he tell me its twenty dollars. Twenty dollars is heap 
money, I say to myself. Wha’ for he gib me twenty dollars now. 
Wha’ for he consider my freedom, jes’ now, and he nebber bin 
tink ’pon ’em before. Someting’s wrong, I say to myself, and 
Mossa for know — but 1 neber let on to ’em I ’spec ’em. I say 
‘ da’s all right. I will come, Mass Ned. I will see you in de 
bush to-night.’ Den he shake my hand— -say he always bin lub 
me — will take me to country whay brack man is gentleman and 
hab white wife, and is lawyer, and schoolmosser, and preacher, 
and hab white man for dribe he carriage. I yerry em berry 
well, but I never le’ him see I laugh. But I hab my tongue ya 
(thrust to one side of his jaws) and the white ob my eye grow 
large as I look ’pon ’em. I know ’em of ole. I bin speck ’em 
when he first come ya courting poor Miss Nelly. I no like ’em 
den — I no like ’em now. But I mak’ blieb I lub ’em too much. 
Das for you now to fix ’em. He’s for see me to-night by ole 
Robin tree in de swamp. Wha’ rnus do — wha’ mus say — how 
you gwine fix ’em ?” 

“ You have done right, ’Bram. Before I say any thing, I will 
consult my father, and a stranger who is with us.” 

“ I yerry bout ’em. He’s a man, I ya. Flora bin tell me 
how he fix Ned Stanton.” 

“ Well, I’ll consult him and my father. Do you remain here 
in the meantime. Do not let yourself be seen. Stanton is a vil- 
lain, but we have found him out. Stanton is not his real name, 
but Ragin.” 

“Ragin, eh? Well, we must Ragin ’em. I’ll wait ’pon you 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABiN 


169 


/a. But mak ; haste — de time is, pretty close, and he’ll ’spec’ 
somet’ing ef I aint by de tree when he come.” 

John Ramsay re-entered the house, and, in few words, re- 
peated the substance of the negro’s story. 

t£ The scoundrel’s bent on being hung,” was the exclamation 
of Lamar, with something like a look of exultation. “ Let 
’Bram encourage him, and give him a meeting for to-morrow 
night, promising to bring all the negroes that he can. We shall 
be at the meeting. ’Bram shall carry us, though we go as his 
comrades, not as his superiors.” 

The scheme of Lamar was soon laid. Young Ramsay and 
himself were to smut their faces, and, in negro habiliments, were 
to impose upon the villain. Lamar promised that the sheriff 
should take his hand at the game. 

“ Our mercy is thrown away upon such a thrice-dyed scoun- 
drel. His destiny forces the task of vengeance upon us. Go to 
Abram, and give him his cue.” 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 





CHAPTER IT. 

Ti:ere is a fatality about the wicked that, sooner or later, wha 
ever may be their precautions and their adroitnesses, invariably 
brings about their confusion and defeat. The criminal in the 
present instance, was one who had enjoyed a long swing of good 
fortune — using these words only to mean that he had been able 
to gratify his wishes, of whatever sort, without yet having been 
made to pay the usual penalties. This very success is most 
commonly the source of final disaster. The fortunate man is apt 
to presume upon his good fortune— to hold himself, like Sylla, a 
sort of favourite with the capricious goddess, until he loses him- 
self irrevocably in the blind presumption which his confidence 
provokes. Edward Stanton, for so we shall continue to call 
him, had been too often in straits like the present, and had too 
often emerged from them with profit, to fancy that he had much 
at hazard in the new game that he had determined to pursue. 
He had been temporarily daunted by the complete exposure of his 
career which had been made by Lamar, and felt, from all he 
saw and all he heard, that the chances were entirely up with 
him where he then stood. But he had not long gone from sight of 
his enemy, before his mind began once more to recover, and to un- 
rave! new schemes and contrivances for the satisfaction of his sel- 
fish passions. He was a person soon to cast aside his apprehen- 
sions, and to rise with new energies after defeat. It is a very 
great misfortune that this admirable quality of character should 
be equally shared, upon occasion, by the rogue and the ruffian, 
with the honest man and the noble citizen. Stanton was resolved 
to make the most of the forty-eight hours which were allowed 
him. He took for granted that, having attained his object, Lamar 
would be satisfied ; — he may have discovered, indeed, that the 
latter would return in another day to Georgia. We have seen, 
from the revelations of Abram, what direction his scheming mind 
was disposed to pursue. His plans were laid in a few minutes, 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


171 


and, while the family cf Ramsay, its guest, and the people of the 
village generally, were raising the simple head board over the 
grave of his injured wife, the miserable wretch, totally insen- 
sible to all honourable or human feeling, was urging the ig- 
norant negro to a desertion of the ancient homestead, in the vain 
hope of attaining that freedom with which, when acquired, he 
knew not well what to do. Of course, this was all a pretext of 
the swindler, by which to get the property within his grasp. He 
had but to cross the Tombeckbe with his unsuspecting compan- 
ions, and they would have been sold, by public outcry, at the 
first popular gathering. His plans laid, his artifices all complete, 
he waited with anxiety the meeting with the negro. He had al- 
ready taken his leave of the family with which he lodged, had 
mounted his horse, and turned his head towards the west, using 
particular care that his departure should be seen by several. He 
little fancied that his return to the neighbourhood by another 
route, and after night had set in, had also been perceived. But 
the vigilance of Lamar had arranged for this. Young Atkins 
had volunteered to observe the movements of Stanton, and, born 
a hunter, and familiar with all the woods for twenty miles round, 
he was able to report on the return of the fugitive,, within half 
an hour of the moment when it took place. Concealing his 
horse in a neighbourng lay , ready for use in the first emergency, 
Stanton proceeded, at the appointed time, to the place of rendez- 
vous. 

Meanwhile, the preparations of Lamar were also in progress. 
The sheriff had been brought, after night-fall, to the house of old 
Ramsay. The coarse garments of the negro had been provided 
for himself and his deputy — for Lamar and the younger Ramsay. 
Young Atkins also insisted on going as a volunteer, and old Ram- 
say could with difficulty be persuaded to forbear accompanyit g 
the party. The blood of the veteran blazed up as fiercely as it 
nad done twenty years before, when he heard the call for volun- 
teers, from the lips of Andrew Jackson, to avenge the butcheries 
of Indian warfare. The good sense of Lamar succeeded iu 
persuading him to leave the affair to younger men. Abram was 
of the part)', and, with his assistance, a greasy preparation was 
procured, in which soot and oil were the chief ingredients, by 


\n 


the wigwam and the cabin. 


which our free citizens were made to assume, in a very few mo- 
ments, the dark and glossy outside of the African. Prime stout 
fellows were they — able field hands — such as would delight the 
unsuspecting eye of the kidnapper as soon as he beheld them. 
They were •all armed with pistols — all but Abram, who carried 
however the knife — a formidable couteau dc chasse , which had 
been one of the bribes of Stanton, presented to him with the 
oank note and tobacco, at their first interview. Abram under- 
took the conduct of the party. They were led forth secretly, in 
profoundest silence, by a circuitous path, to the swamp thicket, in 
the neighbourhood of which the meeting was to take place. It 
is needless to describe the route. Suffice it that they were there 
in season, snugly quartered, and waiting with due impatience for 
the signal. It was heard at last ; — a shrill whistle, thrice re- 
peated, followed by the barking of a hound. To this Abram an- 
swered, going forth as he did so, and leaving the party in the 
close covert to which he had conducted them. The night was a 
bright star-light. The gleams, however, came but imperfectly 
through the thick foliage, and our conspirators could distinguish 
each other only by the sound of their voices. Their faces shone 
as glossily as the leaves, when suddenly touched by the far light 
of the stars. Gradually, they heard approaching footsteps. It 
was then that Lamar said, seizing the hand of young Ramsay, — 

“ No haste, now, — no rashness, — we must let the fellow hobble 
himself fairly.” 

Deep silence followed, broken only by the voice of the negro 
and his companion. 

“ You have brought them ?” said Stanton. 

“ Da’s ya !” replied the black. 

“ How many ?” 

Some tree or four, ’side myself.” 

“ Could you bring no more ?” asked the eager kidnapper. 

“ Hab no chance — you no gib me time ’nuff. Ef you leff ’em 
tell Saturday night now, and Sunday, I get ’em all.” 

“ No ! — no ! that’s impossible. I dare not. These must dc. 
Where are they?” 

“ In de bush ! jes’ ya ! But look ya, Mass Ned, you suie you 
gwine do wha’ you promise ?” 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


m 


u On my honour, ’Bram.” 

“ You will take you Bible oat’, Mass Ned ?” 

“ I swear it.” 

“ Dis ya nigger I bring you is no common nigger, I tell you. 
Mossa hab heaby loss for lose ’em. Wha’ you ’spose he gwine 
say, — wha’ he tink, when he get up to-morrow mo ruin’, and can't 
hnd ’Bram and de rest ob ’em. Wha’ he gwine do ?” 

u What can he do ? We will have the start of him by twen- 
ty-five miles, and in one day more you will be free, ’Bram, 
your own master, and able to put him at defiance. I will see 
to that.” 

“ He will push arter us, Mass Ned, — and dese ya nigger in de 
bush — look ya, Mass Ned, dese all prime nigger. Da’s one on 
’em, a gal ya, most purty nuff for white man wife. You ’mem- 
ber little Suzy, Mass Ned ?” 

“ Don’t I, ’Bram ? Little Suzy is a pretty girl — pretty enough 
to be the wife of any man. Bring her out, bring them all out, 
and let us be off. We understand each other.” 

“ Suzy is good gal, Mass Ned. I want for see ’em doing prime 
when he git he freedom. You will marry ’em yourself, wid 
parson ?” 

“ If she wishes it.” 

“ He will wish ’em for true ! But wha’ dis I yer ’em say 
’bout you habing tree wife a’ready ?” 

“ No more of that, ’Bram.” 

“ W'ha’ ! he aint/true, den ?” 

“ A lie, ’Bram ! a black, a bloody lie !” 

“ What for den you let dat Georgy man run you out ob de 
country ?” 

“ Ha ! who told you this ?” 

“ I yer dem house sarbant talk ob ’em.” 

“ They do not understand it. I am not driven. I choose to 

go-” 

“ Well ! you know bes’, but dat’s wha’ I yer dem say.” 

“ No more, ’Bram ! Where are the people ?” 

“ Let de dog bark tree time, and dey come. You kin bark 
like dog, Mass Ned. Try for ’em.” 

The imitation was a good one. Sounds were heard in the 


174 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


bushes, and one by one the supposed negroes appeared in the star 
light. They looked natural enough, and the kidnapper approach- 
ed them with some interest. 

“ These are all men, are they not ? Are there no women ? 
Where’s Little Suzy ?” 

“ Ha ! Mass Ned, — I speck its true wha’ dem people say. You 
lub gal too much. I call little Suzy now, him take you ’bout de 
neck. Come ya, my people. Mass Ned hab make ’greement 
wid me to carry us all to fine country. He swear Bible ’oat to 
make we all free, and gib we plenty whiskey and tobacco. I tell 
’em you’s ready to go. You ready, eh ?” 

There was a general grunt of assent. 

’Bram was disposed to be satirical. His dry chuckle accom- 
panied every syllable. 

“ Gib urn you hand den on de bargain. Shake hand like 
brudderin. Ha ! ha ! I nebber bin speck to be brudder ob my 
young mossa. Shake hands, niggers, on de bargain.” 

“ You have heard what ’Bram has said, my boys. I promise 
the same things to you. You shall go with me to a country where 
you shall be free. I will give you plenty of whiskey and tobacco. 
Here is my hand. Who is this — Zeke ?” 

The hand was clutched by Lamar, with a grasp that somewhat 
startled the criminal. The voice of the supposed negro in the 
next moment, terribly informed him of his danger. 

“ Villain !” exclaimed the Georgian, “ I have you ! You are 
sworn for the gallows ! You shall not escape us now.” 

A short struggle followed — the doubtful light, and their rapid 
movements, not suffering the other persons around so to distin- 
guish between them as to know where to take hold. The crimi- 
nal put forth all his strength, which was far from inconsiderable. 
The combatants were nearly equally matched, but in the struggle 
they traversed a fallen tree, over which Lamar stumbled and fell, 
partly dragging his enemy with him to the ground. To save him- 
self only did he relax his hold. Of this Stanton nimbly availed 
himself. He recovered his feet, and, before the rest of the party 
could interfere, had gained a dozen paces on his way to the thicket. 
Once within its shadows, he might, with good heart and good for- 
tune, have baffled their pursuit. But this was not destined. He 


THE SNAKE OF THE CABIN. 


Ill 

was intercepted by no iess a person than Abram, who rolled him- 
self suddenly like a huge ball in the path of the fugitive, and 
thus broke the fall which yet precipitated him to the ground. 
In the next moment, the negro had caught him by the leg, yelling 
at the same time to the rest of the party to come to his succour. 

“ Ah ! dog it is you then to whom I owe all this.” 

Such was the speech, muttered through his closed teeth, with 
which Stanton declared his recognition of the assailant. His 
words were followed by a pistol shot. Abram gave a cry, re- 
leased his held, and leapt to his feet. Stanton had only naif risen 
when the whole weight of the negro was again upon him. 

44 You shoot, eh ! You shoot!” were the words of the black, 
shrieked rather than spoken. The party interfered. The whole 
affair had passed in a moment, quick as thought, and in far less 
time than has been occupied with the recital. 

“ Where is he, ’Bram ?” demanded Lamar. 

“ I hab em ya, Mossa — he safe,” responded the other with a groan. 

“ You are hurt ?” said young Ramsay, inquiringly. 

44 One arm smash wid he pistol, Mass Jack.” 

His young master helped the fellow up, while Lamar and the 
sheriff, with young Atkins, prepared to secure the criminal. 

“ What is this ! He is lifeless !” said the former, as he touched 
the body. “ What have you done, ’Bram ?” 

44 1 don’t know, Mossa. I hab my knife in my han’, and when 
he shoot me, I so bex and I so scare, I don’t know wha’ I do wid 
em. I gib um he knife, I speck. It’s he own knife.” 

Sure enough ! the weapon was still sticking in the side of the 
criminal. The one blow was fatal, and his dying groan, if any 
was uttered, was drowned in the furious exclamation with which 
the negro accompanied the blow. 

44 It is a loss to the gallows,” said Lamar, with an expression 
of chagrin. 

44 Better so!” replied young Ramsay. 

44 It saves me a very dirty job!” muttered the sheriff. We 
may add that he took care to pay the usual fees to Abram, who 
was otherwise well provided for by the Ramsay family, and still 
lives to relate the events of that night of conflict with the Snake 
of the Cabin. 


THE WIGWAM VND THE C VBIN. 


476 


OAKATIBBE, 

OH THE CHOCTAW SAMPSON. 


CHAPTER I. 

II was in the year 182—, that I first travelled in the vallies of 
the great south-west. Circumstances, influenced in no slight de- 
gree by an “ errant disposition,” beguiled me to the Choctaw na- 
tion, which, at that time, occupied the greater part of the space 
below the Tennessee line, lying between the rivers Tombeckbe 
and Mississippi, as low, nearly, as the town of Jackson, then, as 
now, the capital of the State of Mississippi. I loitered for several 
weeks in and about this region, without feeling the loss or the 
weight of time. Yet, the reader is not to suppose that travelling 
at that day was so simple a matter, or possessed many, if any of 
the pleasant facilities of the present. Au contraire : It was then 
a serious business. It meant travail rather than travel. The 
roads were few and very hard to find. Indian foot-paths — with 
the single exception of the great military traces laid out by Gen 
eral Jackson, and extending from Tennessee to Lake Ponchar 
train — formed almost the only arteries known to the “Nation;” 
and the portions of settled country in the neighbourhood, nomi- 
nally civilized only, were nearly in the same condition. Some 
of the Indian paths, as I experienced, seemed only to be made for 
the perplexity .of the stranger. Like Gray’s passages which 
“ led to nothing,” they constantly brought me to a stand. Some 
times they were swallowed up in swamps, and, in such cases, 
your future route upon the earth was to be discovered only by a 
deliberate and careful survey of the skies above. The openings 
in the :rees over head alone instructed you in the course yoi 


OAKATIBBE. 


177 


were to pursue. You may readily imagine that this sort of 
progress was as little pleasant as edifying* yet, in some respects, 
it was not wanting in its attractions, also. To the young and 
ardent mind, obstacles of this nature tend rather to excite than to 
depress. They contain the picturesque in themselves, at times, 
and always bring out the moral in the man. “ To learn to rough 
it ,' 5 is an educational phrase, in the dialect of the new countries, 
which would be of great service, adopted as a rule of government 
for the young in all. To “ coon a log” — a mysterious process 
‘o the uninitiated — swim a river — experiment, at a guess, upon 
i properties of one, and the proprieties of another route — parley 
witn an Indian after his own fashion — not to speak of a hundred 
other incidents which the civilized world does not often present — 
will reconcile a lad of sanguine temperament to a number of an- 
noyances much more serious than will attend him on an expedition 
through our frontier countries. 

It was at the close of a cloudy day in November, that I came 
within hail of the new but rude plantation settlements of Colonel 
Harris. He had but lately transferred his interests to Mississippi, 
from one of the “ maternal thirteen” — had bought largely in the 
immediate neighbourhood of the Choctaw nation, and had also 
acquired, by purchase from the natives, certain reserves within 
it, to which he chiefly owes that large wealth, which, at this day, 
he has the reputation of possessing. In place of the stately resi- 
dence which now adorns his homestead, there was then but a 
miserable log-house, one of the most ordinary of the country, in 
which, unaccompanied by his family, he held his temporary 
abiding place. His plantation was barely rescued from the do- 
minions of nature. The trees were girdled only the previous 
winter, for his first crop, which was then upon the ground, and 
an excellent crop it was for that immature condition of his fields. 
There is no describing the melancholy aspect of such a settlement, 
seen in winter, on a cloudy day, and in the heart of an immense 
forest, through which you have travelled for miles, without glimpse 
of human form or habitation. The worm-fence is itself a gloomy 
spectacle, and the girdled trees, erect but dead, the perishing 
skeletons of recent life, impress you with sensations not entirely 
unlike those which you would experience in going over some 

13 


178 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


battle-fu Id, from which the decaying forms of man and hoise 
have not yet been removed. The fences of Col. Harris were low 
in height, though of great extent. They were simply sufficient 
to protect the fields from the random assaults of cattle. Of his 
out-houses, the most respectable in size, solidity and security, was 
the corn crib. His negro-houses, like the log-house in which he 
himself dwelt, were only so many temporary shanties, covered 
with poles and thatched with bark and pfne-straw. In short, 
every thing that met my eye only tended the more to frown upon 
my anticipations of a cheerful fireside and a pleasant arrange- 
ment of the creature-comforts. But my doubts and apprehen- 
sions all vanished at the moment of my reception. I was met by 
the proprietor with that ease and warmth of manner which does 
not seem to be conscious of any deficiencies of preparation, and 
is resolved that there shall be none which sincere hospitality can 
remedy. I was soon prepared to forget that there were deficien- 
cies. I felt myself very soon at home. I had letters to Col. Har- 
ris, which made me particularly welcome, and in ten minutes we 
were both in full sail amongst all the shallows and deeps of ordi- 
nary conversation. 

Not that we confined ourselves to these. Our discourse, after 
a little while, turned upon a circumstance which I had witnessed 
on riding through his fields and while approaching his dwelling, 
which struck me with considerable surprise, and disturbed, in 
some degree, certain pre-conceived opinions in my mind. I had 
seen, interspersed with his negro labourers, a goodly number of 
Indians of both sexes, but chiefly young persons, all equally and 
busily employed in cotton picking. The season had been a pro- 
tracted one, and favourable, accordingly, to the maturing of great 
numbers of the bolls which an early and severe winter must have 
otherwise destroyed. The crop, in consequence, had been so* 
great as to be beyond the ability, to gather in and harvest, of the 
“ force” by which it was made. This, in the new and fertile 
vallies of the south-west, is an usual event. In ordinary cases, 
when this happens, it is the custom to buy other negroes from less 
productive regions, to consummate and secure the avails of labour 
of the original “ force.” The whole of these, united, are then 
addressed to the task of opening additional lands, which, should 


OAKATIBBE. 


179 


they yield eu before, necessarily demand a second purchase of an 
extra number to secure and harvest, in season, the surplus fruits 
of their industry. The planter is very readily persuaded to make 
this purchase so long as the seeming necessity shall re-occur ; 
and in this manner has he continued expanding his interests, in- 
creasing the volume of his lands, and incurring debt for these and 
for his slaves, at exorbitant prices, in order to the production of a 
commodity, every additional bag of which, disparages its own 
value, and depreciates the productive power, in an estimate of 
profit, of the industry by which it is produced. It will not be 
difficult, keeping this fact in mind as a sample of the profligacy 
of western adventure — to account, in part, for the insolvency and 
desperate condition of a people in possession of a country naturally 
the most fertile of any in the world. 

The crop of Col. Harris w’as one of this description. It far 
exceeded the ability of his “ force” to pick it in ; but instead of 
buying additional slaves for the purpose,’ he conceived the idea 
of turning to account the lazy Choctaws by whom he was sur- 
rounded. He proposed to hire them at a moderate compensation, 
which was to be paid them weekly. The temptation of gain was 
greedily caught at by these hungering outcasts, and, for a few 
dollars, or an equivalent in goods, groceries, and so forth, some 
forty-five of them were soon to be seen, as busy as might be, in 
the prosecution of their unusual labours. The work was light 
and easy — none could be more so — and though not such adepts 
as the negro, the Indian women soon contrived to fill their bags 
and baskets, in the course of the day. At dark, you might be- 
hold them trudging forward under their burdens to the log-house, 
where the proprietor stood ready to receive them. Here he 
weighed their burdens, and gave them credit, nightly, for the 
number of pounds which they each brought in. The night of my 
arrival was Saturday, and the value of the whole week’s labour 
was then to be summed up and accounted for. This necessarily 
made them all punctual in attendance, and nothing could be 
more amusing than the interest which they severally displayed as 
Col. Harris took out his memorandum book, and proceeded to 
make his entries. Every eye was fixed upon him, and an old In- 
dian, who, though he did not work himself, represented the interest* 


180 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


of a wife and two able-bodied daughters, planted himself directly 
behind this gentleman, and watched, with looks of growing sa- 
gacity, every stroke that was made in this — to him — volume of 
more than Egyptian mystery and hieroglyphics. Meanwhile, the 
squaws stood about their baskets with looks expressive of similar 
interest, but at the same time of laudable patience. The negroes in 
the rear, were scarcely less moved by curiosity, though a con- 
temptuous grin might be seen on nearly all their countenances, 
as they felt their superiority in nearly every physical and intel- 
lectual respect, over the untutored savages. Many Indians were 
present who neither had nor sought employment. Of those em- 
ployed, few or none were of middle age. But these were not 
wanting to the assemblage. They might be seen prowling about 
the rest — watchful of the concerns of their wives, sons and 
daughters, with just that sort and degree of interest, which the 
eagle may be supposed to feel, who, from his perch on the tree- 
top or the rock, beholds the fish-hawk dart into the water in pur- 
suit of that prey which he meditates to rend from his jaws as soon 
as he shall re-ascend into the air. Their interest was decidedly 
greater than that of the poor labourer. It was in this manner that 
these vultures appropriated the fruits of his industry, and there 
was no remedy. They commonly interfered, the moment it was 
declared what was due to the employee , to resolve the pay into a 
certain number of gallons of whiskey ; so many pounds of to- 
bacco ; 'So much gunpowder and lead. If the employer, as was 
the case with Col. Harris, refused to furnish them with whiskey, 
they required him to pay in money. With this, they soon made 
their way to one of those moral sinks, called a grog-shop, which 
English civilization is always ready to plant, as its first, most fa- 
miliar, and most imposing standard, among the hills and forests 
of the savage. 

It may be supposed that this experiment upon the inflexibility 
of Indian character and habit — for it was an experiment which 
had been in trial only a single week — was a subject of no little 
curiosity to me, as it would most probably be to almost every 
person at all impressed with the humiliating moral and social de- 
terioration which has marked this fast decaying people. Could it 
possibly be successful * Could a race, proud, sullen, tncommuni 


OAKATIBBE. 


181 


cative, wandering, be persuaded, even by gradual steps, and with 
the hope of certain compensation, to renounce the wild satisfaction 
afforded by their desultory and unconstrained modes of life 1 
Could they be beguiled for a season into employments which, 
though they did not demand any severe labours, at least required 
pains-taking, regular industry, and that habitual attention to daily 
recurring tasks, which, to their roving nature, would make life 
a most monotonous and unattractive possession ? How far the 
lightness of the labour and the simplicity of the employment, with 
the corresponding recompense, would reconcile them to its tasks, 
was the natural subject of my inquiry. On this head, my friend, 
Col. Harris, could only conjecture and speculate like myself. His 
experiment had been in progress but a few days. But our specu- 
lations led us to very different conclusions. He was a person of 
very ardent character, and sanguine, to the last degree, of the 
success of his project. He had no question but that the Indian, 
even at his present stage, might be brought under the influence 
of a judicious civilization. We both agreed that the first process 
was in procuring their labour — that this was the preliminary step, 
without taking which, no other could be made ; but how to bring 
them to this was the question. 

“ They can be persuaded to this,” was his conclusion. “ Mon- 
ey, the popular god, is as potent with them as with our own peo- 
ple. They will do any thing for money. You see these now in 
the field. They have been there, and just as busy, and in the 
same number, from Monday last.” 

“ How long will they continue ?” 

“ As long as I can employ and pay them.” 

“ Impossible ! They will soon be dissatisfied. The men will 
consume and squander all the earnings of the females and the 
feeble. The very motive of their industry, money, to which you 
refrr, will be lost to them after the first payment. I am convin- 
ced that a savage people, not as yet familiar with the elements of 
moral prudence, can. only be broigst to habitual labour, by the 
one process of coercion.” 

“ We shall see. There is no coercion upon them now, they 
work with wonderful regularity.” 

« Thr week will end it. Savages are children in all but phys- 


182 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


ical respects. To do any thing with them, you must place them 
in that position of responsibility, and teach them that law, without 
the due employment of which, any attempt to educate a child, 
must be an absurdity — you must teach them obedience. They 
must he made to know, at the outset, that they know nothing— 
that they must implicitly defer to the superior. This lesson they 
will never learn, so long. as they possess the power, at any mo- 
ment, to withdraw from his control.” 

“ Yet, even were this to be allowed, there must be a limit 
There must come a time when you will be required to emanci- 
pate them. In what circumstances will you find that time ? Yoii 
cannot keep them under this coercion always; when will you set 
them free?” 

“ When they are fit for freedom.” 

“ How is that to be determined ? Who shall decide their fitness ?” 

“ Themselves; as in the case of the children of Israel. The 
children of Israel went out from bondage as soon as their own 
intellectual advancement had been such as to enable them t<t 
produce from their own ranks a leader like Moses one whos€ 
genius was equal to that of the people by whom they had been 
educated, and sufficient for their own proper government there- 
after.” 

“ But has not an experiment of this sort already been tried in 
our country ?” 

“ Nav, I thinly not — I know of none.” 

“ Yes : an Indian boy was taken in infancy from his parents, 
carried to one of the Northern States, trained in all the learning 
and habits of a Northern college and society, associated only with 
whites, beheld no manners, and heard no morals, but those which 
are known to Christian communities. His progress was satisfac. 
tory — he learned rapidly — was considered something of a prodigy, 
and graduated witfueclat. He was then left, with the same op- 
tion as the rest enjoyed, to the choice of a profession. And what 
was his choice ? Do you not remember the beautiful little poem 
of Freneau on this subject ? He chose the buck-skin leggins, the 
moccasins, bow and arrows, and the wide, wild forests, where his 
people dwelt.” 

“ Freneau’s poem tells the story somewhat differently. The 


OAKATIBBE 


1 & 


facts upon which it is founded, however, are, I believe, very much 
as you tell them. But what an experiment it was ! How very 
silly ! They take a copper-coloured boy from his people, and car 
ry him, while yet an infant, to a remote region. Suppose, in or- 
der that the experiment may be fairly tried, that they withhold 
from him all knowledge of his origin. Fie is brought up precise- 
ly as the other lads around him. But what is the first discovery 
which he makes? That he is a copper-coloured boy— that he is, 
alone, the only copper-coloured boy — that wherever he turns he 
sees no likeness to himself. This begets his wonder, then his cu- 
riosity, and finally his suspicion. He soon understands — for his 
suspicion sharpens every faculty of observation — that he is an 
object of experiment. Nay, the most cautious policy in the world 
could never entirely keep this from a keen-thoughted urchin. 
Ilis fellow pupils teach him this. He sees that, to them, he is an 
object of curiosity and study. They regard him, and he soon 
regards himself, as a creature set apart, and separated, for some 
peculiar purposes, from all the rest. A stern and singular sense 
of individuality and isolation is thus forced upon him. He asks 
— Am I, indeed, alone ? — Who am I ? — What am I ?— These in- 
quiries naturally occasion others. Doe's he read ? Books give 
him the history of his race. Nay, his own story probably meets 
his eye in the newspapers. He learns that he is descended from 
a nation dwelling among the secret sources of the Susquehannah. 
He pries in all corners for information. ■ The more secret his 
search, the more keenly does he pursue it. It becomes the great 
passion of his mind. He learns that his people are fierce war- 
riors and famous hunters. He hears of their strifes with the 
white man — their successful strifes, when the nation could send 
forth its thousand bow-men, and the whites were few and feeble. 
Perhaps, the young pale faces around him, speak of his people,, 
even now, as enemies ; at least, as objects of suspicion, and per- 
haps antipathy. All these things tend to elevate and idealize, in 
his mind, the history of his people. He cherishes a sympathy, even 
beyond the natural desires of the heart, for the perishing race 
from which he feels himself, “ like a limb, cast bleeding and 
torn.” The curiosity tr see his ancestry — the people of his tribe 
and country — would be ino most natural feeling of the white bey, 


184 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


under similar circumstances — shall we wonder that it is the pre- 
dominant passion in the bosom of the Indian, whose very com- 
plexion forces him away from any connection with the rest ! My 
idea of the experiment — if such a proceeding may be called an 
experiment — is soon spoken. As a statement of facts, I see no- 
thing to provoke wonder. The result was the most natural thing 
in the world, and a man of ordinary powers of reflection might 
easily have predicted it, precisely as it happened. The only 
wonder is, that there should be found, among persons of common 
education and sagacity, men who should have undertaken such 
an experiment, and fancied that they were busy in a moral and 
philosophical problem.” 

“ Why, how would you have the experiment tried ?” 

“ As it was tried upon the Hebrews, upon the Saxons — upon 
every savage people who ever became civilized. It cannot be 
tried upon an individual : it must be tried upon a nation — at least 
upon a community, sustained by no succour from without — having 
no forests or foreign shores upon which to turn their eyes for 
sympathy — having no mode or hope of escape — under the full 
control of an already civilized people — and sufficiently numerous 
among themselves, to find sympathy, against those necessary 
rigours which at first will seem oppressive, but which will be the 
only hopeful process by which to enforce the work of improve- 
ment. They must find this sympathy from beholding others, like 
themselves in aspect, form, feature and condition, subiect to the 
same unusual restraints. In this contemplation they will be 
content to pursue their labours under a restraint which they 
cannot displace. But the natural law must be satisfied. There 
must be opportunities yielded for the indulgence of the legitimate 
passions. The young of both sexes among the subjected people, 
must commune and form ties in obedience to the requisitions of 
nature and according to their national customs. What, if the 
Indian student, on whom the “ experiment” was tried, had paid 
his addresses to a white maiden ! What a revulsion of the moral 
and social sense would have followed his proposition in the mind 
of the Saxon damsel ; — and, were she to consent, what a commo- 
tion in the community in which she lived. And this revulsion 
and commotion would have been perfectly natural, and, accord- 


OAKATIBBE. 


185 


ingly, perfectly proper. God has made an obvious distinction 
between certain races of men, setting them apart, and requiring 
them to be kept so, by subjecting them to the resistance and 
rebuke of one of the most jealous sentinels of sense which we 
possess — the eye. The prejudices of this sense, require that the 
natural barriers should be maintained, and hence it becomes 
necessary that the race in subjection, should be sufficiently nu- 
merous to enable it to carry out the great object' of every distinct 
community, though, perchance, it may happen to be an inferior one. 
In process of time, the beneficial and blessing effects of labour 
would be felt and understood by the most ignorant and savage of 
the race. Perhaps, not in one generation, cfr in two, but after the 
fifth and seventh, as it is written, “ of those who keep my com- 
mandments.” They would soon discover that, though compelled 
to toil, their toils neither enfeebled their strength nor impaired 
their happiness — that, on the contrary, they still resulted in their 
increasing strength, health, and comfort ; — that their food, which 
before was precarious, depending on the caprices of the seasons, 
or the uncertainties of the chase, was now equally plentiful, 
wholesome and certain. They would also perceive that, instead 
of the sterility which is usually the destiny of all wandering 
tribes, and one of the processes by which they perish — the fecun- 
dity of their people was wonderfully increased. These discov- 
eries — if time be allowed to make them — would tacitly reconcile 
them to that inferior position of their race, which is proper and 
inevitable, so long as their intellectual inferiority shall continue. 
And what would have been the effect upon our Indians — decidedly 
the noblest race of aborigines that the world has ever known — if, 
instead of buying their scalps at prices varying from five to fifty 
pounds each, we had conquered and subjected them ? Will any 
one pretend to say that they would not have increased with the 
restraints and enforced toils of our superior genius ? — that they 
would not, by this time, have formed a highly valuable and noble 
integral in the formation of our national strength and character ? 
Perhaps their civilization would have been comparatively ea&y — 
the Hebrews required four hundred years — the Britons and 
Saxons, possibly, half that time after the Norman Conque&t. 
Differing in colour from their conquerors, though I suspect, with a 


186 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


natural genius superior to that of the ancient Britons, at the time 
of the Roman invasion under Julius Caesar, the struggle between 
the two races must have continued for some longer time, but the 
union would have been finally effected, and then, as in the case 
of the Englishman, we should have possessed a race, in their 
progeny, which, in moral and physical structure, might have 
challenged competition with the world.” 

“ Ay, but the difficulty would have been in the conquest.” 

“ True, that would have been the difficulty. The American 
colonists were few in number and feeble in resource. The na- 
tions from which they emerged put forth none of their strength in 
sending them forth. Never were colonies so inadequately pro- 
vided — so completely left to themselves ; and hence the peculiar 
injustice and insolence of the subsequent exactions of the British, 
by which they required their colonies to support their schemes of 
aggrandizement and expenditure by submitting to extreme taxa- 
tion. Do you suppose, if the early colonists had been powerful, 
that they would have ever deigned to treat for lands with the rov- 
ing hordes of savages whom they found on the continent ? Never ! 
Their purchases and treaties were not for lands, but tolerance. 
They bought permission to remain without molestation. The 
amount professedly given for land, was simply a tribute paid to 
the superior strength of the Indian, precisely as we paid it to Al- 
giers and the Musselmens, until we grew strong enough to whip 
them into respect. If, instead of a few ships and a few hundred 
men, timidly making their approaches along the shores of Man- 
hattan, Penobscot and Ocracocke, some famous leader, like 
iEneas, had brought his entire people — suppose them to be the 
persecuted Irish — what a wondrous difference would have taken 
place. The Indians would have been subjected — would have 
sunk into their proper position of humility and dependence ; and, 
by this time, might have united with their conquerors, producing, 
perhaps, along the great ridge of the Alleghany, the very noblest 
specimens of humanity, in mental and bodily stature, that the 
world has ever witnessed. The Indians were taught to be inso- 
lent by the fears and feebleness of the whites. They were flat- 
tered by fine words, by rich presents, and abundance of defer- 
ence, until the ignorant savage, but a single degree above the 


OAKATIBBE. 


187 


brute — who, until then, had never been sure of his porridge for 
more than a day ahead — took airs upon himself, and became one 
of the most conceited and arrogant lords in creation. The colo- 
nists grew wiser as they grew stronger ; but the evil was already 
done, and we are reaping some of the bitter fruits, at this day, of 
seed unwisely sown in that. It may be that we shall yet see the 
experiment tried fairly. 5 ’ 

“ Ah, indeed — where ?” 

“ In Mexico — by the Texians. Let the vain, capricious, ig- 
norant, and dastardly wretches who now occupy and spoil the 
face and fortunes of the former country, persevere in pressing 
war upon those sturdy adventurers, and their doom is written. I 
fear it may be the sword — I hope it may be the milder fate of 
bondage and subjection. Such a fate would save, and raise them 
finally to a far higher condition than they have ever before en- 
joyed. Thirty thousand Texians, each with his horse and rifle, 
would soon make themselves masters of the city of Montezuma, 
and then may you see the experiment tried upon a scale suffi- 
ciently extensive to make it a fair one. But your Indian student, 
drawn from 

“ Susquehannah’s farthest springs,” 

and sent to Cambridge, would present you with some such moral 
picture as that of the prisoner described by Sterne. His chief 
employment, day by day, would consist in notching upon his stick, 
the undeviating record of his daily suffering. It would be to him 
an experiment almost as full of torture, as that of the Scottish 
Boot, the Spanish Thumb-screw — or any of those happy devices 
of ancient days, for impressing pleasant principles upon the mind, 
by impressing unpleasant feelings upon the thews, joints and sinews. 
I wish that some one of our writers, familiar with mental analysis, 
would make this poem of Freneau, the subject of a story. I think 
it would yield admirable material. To develope the thoughts and 
feelings of an Indian boy, taken from his people, ere yet he has 
formed such a knowledge of them, or of others, as to have, begun 
to discuss or to compare their differences — follow him to a college 
such as that of Princeton or Cambridge — watch him within its 
walls — amid the crowd, but not of it — looking only within him- 


188 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


self, while all others are looking into him, or tr} ing to do so — sur- 
rounded by active, sharp-witted lads of the Anglo-Norman race ; 
undergoing an hourly repeated series of moral spasms, as he hears 
them wantonly or thoughtlessly dwell upon the wild and igno- 
rant people from whom he is chosen; — listening, though without 
seeming to listen’ to their crude speculations upon the great prob- 
lem which is to be solved only by seeing how well he can en- 
dure his spasms, and what use he will' make of his philosophy if 
he survives it — then, when the toils of study and the tedious re* 
straints and troubles of prayer and recitation are got over, to be- 
hold and describe the joy with which the happy wretch flings by 
his fetters, when he is dismissed from those walls which have wit 
nessed his tortures — even supposing him to remain (which is verj 
unlikely,) until his course of study is pronounced to be complete 
With what curious pleasure will he stop in the shadow of the first 
deep forest, to tear from his limbs those garments which make 
him seem unlike his people! How quick will be the beating at 
his heart as he endeavours to dispose about his shoulders the 
blanket robe in the manner in which it is worn by the chief war- 
rior of his tribe ! With what keen effort — should he have haa 
any previous knowledge of his kindred — will he seek to compel 
his memory to restore every, the slightest, custom or peculiar^ 
which distinguished them when his ©yes were first withdrawn 
from the parental tribe ; and how closely will he imitate their in- 
domitable pride and lofty, cold, superiority of look and gesture, 
as, at evening, he enters the native hamlet, and takes his seat in 
silence at the door of the Council House, waiting, without a word, 
for the summons of the Elders !” 

“ Quite a picture. I think with you, that, in good hands, such 
a subject would prove a very noble one.” 

“ But the story would not finish here. Supposing all this to 
have taken place, just as we are told it did — supposing the boy to 
have graduated at college, and to have flung away the distinction 
— to have returned, as has been described, to his savage costume 
— to the homes and habits of his people ; — it is not so clear that he 
will fling away all the lessons of wisdom, all the knowledge of facts, 
which he will have acquired from the tuition of the superior race. 
A natural instinct, which is above all lessons, must be complied 


0AKAT1BBE. 


m 

with ; but this done — and when the first tumults of his blood 
have subsided, which led him to defeat the more immediate ob- 
ject of his social training — there will be a gradual resumption 
of the educational influence in his mind, and his intellectual 
habits will begin to exercise themselves anew. They will be 
provoked necessarily to this exercise by what he beholds around 
him. He will begin to perceive, in its true aspects, the wretched- 
ness of that hunter-state, which, surveyed at, a distance, appeared 
only the embodiment of stoical heroism and the most elevated 
pride. He will see and lament the squalid poverty of his people ; 
which, his first lessons in civilization must have shown him, is 
due only to the mode of life and pursuits in which they are en- 
gaged. Their beastly intoxication will offend his tastes — their 
superstition and ignorance — the circumscribed limits of their ca- 
pacity for judging of things and relations beyond the life of the 
bird or beast of prey — will awaken in him a sense of shame 
when he feels that they are his kindred. The insecurity of their 
liberties will awaken his fears, for he will instantly see that the 
great body of the people in every aboriginal nation are the veriest 
slaves in the world ; and the degrading exhibitions which they 
make in their filth and drunkenness, which reduce the man to a 
Ioathesomeness of aspect which is never reached by the vilest 
beast which he hunts or scourges, will be beheld by the Indian 
student in very lively contrast with all that has met his eyes 
iuring that novitiate among the white sages., the processes 
sf which have been to him so humiliating and painful. His 
memory reverts to that period with feelings of reconciliation. 
The torture is over, and the remembrance of formes^pain, endured 
with manly fortitude, is comparatively a pleasure. A necessary 
reaction in his mind takes place ; and, agreeably to the laws of 
nature, what will, and what should follow, but that he will seek 
to become the tutor and the reformer of his people ? They them- 
selves will tacitly raise him to this position, for the man of the 
forest will defer even to the negro who has been educated by the 
white man. He will try to teach them habits of greater method 
and industry — he will overthrow the altars of their false god*- 
he will seek to bind the wandering tribes together under one head 
and in one nation — he will prescribe uniform laws of goverm.oen, 


190 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


He will succeed in some things — he will fail in others ; he will 
offend the pride of the self-conceited and the mulish — the priest- 
hood will be the first to declare against him — and he will be mur- 
dered most probably, as was Romulus, and afterwards deified. 
If he escapes this fate, he will yet, most likely, perish from mor- 
tification under failure, or, in consequence of those mental strifes 
which spring from that divided allegiance between the feelings 
belonging to his savage, and those which have had their origin in 
his Christian schools — those natural strifes between the acquisi- 
tions of civilization on the one hand-,- and those instinct tendencies 
of the blood which distinguish his connection with the inferior 
race. In this conflict, he will, at length, when the enthusiasm 
of his youthful zeal has become chilled by frequent and unex- 
pected defeat, falter, and finally fail. But will there be nothing 
done for his people ? Who can say ? I believe that no seed 
falls without profit by the wayside. Even if the truth produces 
no immediate fruits, it forms a moral manure which fertilizes’the 
otherwise barren heart, in preparation for the more favourable 
season. The Indian student may fail, as his teachers did, in 
realizing the object for which he has striven ; and this sort of. 
failure, is, by the way, one of the most ordinary of human allot- 
ment. The desires of man’s heart, by an especial Providence, 
that always wills him to act for the future, generally aim at 
something far beyond his own powers of performance. But the 
labour has not been taken in vain, in the -progress of successive 
ages, which has achieved even a small part of its legitimate pur- 
poses. The Indian student has done for his people much more 
than the white*man achieves ordinarily for his generation, if he 
has only secured to their use a single truth which they knew not 
before — if he has overthrown only one of their false gods — if he 
has smitten off the snaky head of only one of their superstitious 
prejudices. If he has added to their fields of corn a field of mil- 
let, he has induced one farther physical step towards moral im- 
provement. Nay, if there be no other result, the very deference 
which they will have paid him, as the eleve of the white man, 
will be a something gained of no little importance, towards in- 
ducing their more ready, though still tardy, adoption of the laws 
and guidance of tl e superior race,” 


OAKATIBBE. 


m 


CHAPTER II. 

I am afraid that my reader will suffer quite as much undei 
this long discussion, as did my excellent companion, Col. Harris. 
But he is not to suppose that all the views here expressed, were 
uttered consecutively, as they are above set down. I have sim- 
ply condensed, for more easy comprehension, the amount of a 
conversation which lasted some two hours. I may add, that, at the 
close, we discovered, as is very often the case among disputants, 
there was very little substantial difference between us. Our dis- 
pute, if any, was rather verbal than philosophical. On the sub- 
ject of his experiment, however, Col. Harris fancied, that, in em- 
ploying some forty or fifty of the Indians, of both sexes, he had 
brought together a community sufficiently large for the purposes 
of a fair experiment. Still, I thought that the argument remained 
untouched. They were not subordinate ; they were not subdued ; 
they could still exercise a free and absolute will, in despite of 
authority and reason. He could resort to no method for compel- 
ling their obedience ; and we know pretty well what will result 
— even among white men — from the option of vagrancy. 

“ But,” 1 urged, “ even if the objections which I have stated, 
fail of defeating your scheme, there is yet another agent of de- 
feat working against it, in the presence of these elderly Indians, 
who do not join in the labour, and yet, according to your own 
showing, still prowl in waiting to snatch from the hands of the 
industrious all the fruits of their toil. The natural effect of this 
will be to discourage the industry of those who work ; for, unless 
the labourer is permitted to enjoy a fair proportion of the fruits of 
bis labour, it is morally impossible that he should long continue it.” 

Our conference was interrupted by the appearance of the la- 
bourers, Indians and Negroes, who now began to come in, bringing 
with them me cotton which they had severally gathered during the 
day. This was accumulated in the court-yard, before the dwell- 
ing ; eact .nciian, man or woman, standing beside the bag or bas. 


195i 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


ket which contained the proofs of his industry. You may readily 
suppose, that, after the dialogue and discussion which is partially 
reported above, I felt no little interest in observing the proceed- 
ings. The parties present were quite numerous. I put the ne- 
groes out of the question, though they were still to be seen, linger- 
ing in the background, grinning spectators of the scene. The 
number of Indians, men and women, who had that day been en- 
gaged in picking, was thirty-nine. Of these, twenty-six weie 
females ; three, only, might be accounted men, and ten were boys 
— none over sixteen. Of the females the number of elderly and 
young women was nearly equal. Of the men, one was very old 
and infirm; a second of middle age, who appeared to be something 
of an idiot ; while the third, whom I regarded for this reason with 
more consideration and interest than all the party beside, was 
one of the most noble specimens of physical manhood that my 
eyes had ever beheld. lie was fully six feet three inches in 
height, slender but muscular in the extreme. He possessed a 
clear, upright, open, generous cast of countenance, as utterly 
unlike that sullen, suspicious expression of the ordinary Indian 
as you can possibly imagine. Good nature and good sense 
were the predominant characteristics of his Matures, and — which 
is quite as unusual with Indians when in the presence of strangers 
— he laughed and jested with all the merry, unrestrainable vi- 
vacity of a youth of Anglo-Saxon breed. Flow was it that so 
noble a specimen of manhood consented to herd with the women 
and the weak of his tribe, in descending to the mean labours 
which the warriors were accustomed to despise ? 

“ He must either be a fellow of great sense, or he must be a 
coward. He is degraded.” 

Such was my conclusion. The answer of Col. Harris was 
immediate. 

“ He is a fellow of good sense, and very far from being a cow- 
ard. Fie is one of the best Choctaws that I know.” 

“ A man, then, to be a leader of his people. It is a singular 
proof of good sense and great mental flexibility, to find an Indian, 
who is courageous, voluntarily assuming tasks which are held to 
be degrading among the hunters. I should like to talk with this 
fellow when you are done. What is his name ?” 


OAKATIBBE. 


13 v 

“ His proper name is Oakatibbe ; but that by which he is gen 
erally known among us — his English name — is Slim Sampson, a 
name which he gets on the score of his superior strength and 
great slenderness. The latter name, in ordinary use, has com- 
pletely superseded the former, even among his own people. It 
may be remarked, by the way, as another proof of the tacit def- 
erence of the inferior to the superior people, that most Indians 
prefer to use the names given by the whites to those of their own 
language. There are very few among them who will not con- 
trive, after a short intimacy with white men, to get some epithet 
— which is not always a complimentary one — but which they 
cling to as tenaciously as they would to some far more valuable 
possession.” 

This little dialogue was whispered during the stir which fol- 
lowed the first arrival of the labourers. We had no opportunity 
for more. 

The rest of the Indians were in n« respect remarkable. There 
were some eight or ten women, and perhaps as many men, who 
did not engage in the toils of their companions, though they did 
not seem the less interested in the result. These, I noted, were 
all, in greater or less degree, elderly persons. One was full 
eigh*" ' r ears old, and a strange fact for one so venerable, was the 
most confirmed drunkard of the tribe. When the cotton pickers 
advanced with their baskets, the hangers-on drew nigh also, deeply 
engrossed with the prospect of reaping the gains from that indus- 
try which they had no mood to emulate. These, however, were 
very moderate, in most cases. Where a negro woman picked 
from one to two hundred weight of cotton, per diem, the Indian 
woman, at the utmost, gathered sixty-five ; and the general aver- 
age among them, did not much exceed forty-five. Slim Samp- 
son’s basket weighed eighty-six pounds — an amount considerably 
greater than any of the rest — and Col. Harris assured me, that 
:is average during the week had been, at no time, much 'below 
this quantity. 

The proceedings had gone on without interruption or annoy- 
ance for the space of half an hour. Col. Harris had himself 
weighed every basket, with scrupulous nicety, and recorded the 
several weights opposite to the name of the picker, in a little memo- 

14 


194 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


randum book which he kept exclusively for this purpose; and it 
was amusing to see with what pleasurable curiosit} , the Indians, 
men and women, watched the record which stated their several 
accounts. The whole labour of the week was to be settled for 
that night (Saturday), and hence the unusual gathering of those 
whose only purpose in being present, was to grasp at the spoils. 

Among these hawks was one middle-aged Indian — a stern, 
sulky fellow, of considerable size and strength — whose skin was 
even then full of liquor, which contributing to the usual insolence 
of his character, made him at times very troublesome. He had 
more than once, during the proceedings, interfered between Col. 
Harris and his employees , in such a manner as to provoke, in the 
mind of that gentleman, no small degree of irritation. The Eng- 
lish name of this Indian, was Loblolly Jack. Loblolly Jack had 
a treble motive for being present and conspicuous. He bad 
among the labourers, a wife and two daughters. When the has 
kets of these were brought forward to be weighed, he could no 
longer be kept in the background, but, resolutely thrusting him- 
self before the rest, he handled basket, book and steelyards in 
turn, uttered his suspicions of foul play, and insisted upon a close 
examination of every movement which was made by the proprie- 
tor. In this manner, he made it very difficult for him to proceed 
in his duties ; and his conduct, to do the Indians justice, seemed 
quite as annoying to them as to Col. Harris. The wife frequently 
expostulated, with him, in rather bolder language than an Indian 
squaw is apt to use to her liege lord ; while Slim Sampson, after 
a few words of reproach, expressed in Choctaw, concluded by 
telling him in plain English, that he was “ a rascal dog.” He 
seemed the only one among them who had no fear of the intruder 
Loblolly Jack answered in similar terms, and Slim Sampson, 
clearing the baskets at a single bound, confronted him with a 
show of fight, and a direct challenge to it, on the spot where they 
stood. The other seemed no ways loth. He recoiled a pace, 
drew his knife — a sufficient signal for Slim Sampson to get hi* 
own in readiness — and, thus opposed, they stood, glaring upon 
each other with eyes of the most determined expression of malig- 
nity. A moment more — an additional word of provocation from 
either — and blows must ha?e taker’ place. But Col. Harrn, a 


OAKATIBBE. 


195 


man of grea« firmness, pnt himself between them, and calling to 
one of his negroes, bade him bring out from the house his double- 
barreled gun. 

“ Now,” said he, “ my good fellows, the first man of you that 
lifts his hand to strike, I’ll shoot him down; so look to it. Slim 
Sampson, go back to your basket, and don’t meddle in this busi- 
ness. Don’t you suppose that I’m man enough to keep Loblolly 
Jack in order? You shall see.” 

It is not difficult for a determined white man to keep an Indian 
in subordination, so long as both of them are sober. A few 
words more convinced Loblolly Jack, who had not yet reached 
the reckless stage in drunkenness, that his wiser course was to 
give back and keep quiet, which he did. The storm subsided 
almost as suddenly as it had been raised, and Col. Harris resumed 
his occupation. Still, the Indian who had proved so troublesome 
before, continued his annoyances, though in a manner somewhat 
less audacious. His last proceeding was to get as nigh as he 
could to the basket which was about to be weighed — his wife’s 
basket — and, with the end of a stick, adroitly introduced into some 
little hole, he contrived to press the basket downwards, and thus 
to add so much to the weight of the cotton, that his squaw prom- 
ised to bear off the palm of victory in that day’s picking. Nobody 
saw the use to which the stick was put, and for a few moments no 
one suspected it. Had the cunning fellow been more moderate, 
he might have succeeded in his attempt upon the steelyards ; but 
his pressure increased with every approach which was made to a 
determination of the weight, and while all were wondering that SO 
small a basket should be so heavy, Slim Sampson discovered and 
pointed out the trick to Col . Harris, who suddenly snatching the stick 
from the grasp of the Indian, was about to lay it over his head. 
But this my expostulation prevented ; and, after some delay, the 
proceedings were finally ended ; but in such a manner as to make 
my friend somewhat more doubtful than he had been before, on 
the subject of his experiment. He paid off their accounts, some 
in cloths and calicoes, of which he had provided a small supply 
for this purpose ; but the greater number, under the evil influence 
of the idle and the elder, demanded and received their pay in 
money. 


196 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was prcbably about ten o’clock that evening. We had fin 
ished supper, and Col. H. and myself had resumed the subjecl 
upon which we had been previously engaged. But the discus- 
sion was languid, and both of us were unquestionably lapsing into 
that state, when each readily receives an apology for retiring for 
the night, when we were startled from our drowsy tendencies by 
a wild and terrible cry, such as made me thrill instinctively with 
the conviction that something terrible had taken place. We start- 
ed instantly to our feet, and threw open the door. The cry was 
more distinct and piercing, and its painful character could not be 
mistaken. It was a cry of death — of sudden terror, and great 
and angry excitement. Many voices were mingled together — some 
expressive of fury, some of fear, and many of lamentation. The 
tones which finally prevailed over, and continued long after all 
others had subsided, were those of women. 

“ These sounds come from the shop of that trader. Those ras- 
cally Choctaws are d^«k and fighting, and ten to one but some- 
;3 killed among them !” was the exclamation of Col. H. 
“ These sounds are familiar to me. I have heard them once be- 
fore. They signify murder. It is a peculiar whoop which the 
Indians have, to denote the shedding of blood — to show that a crime 
has been committed.” 

The words had scarcely been uttered, before Slim Sampson 
came suddenly out into the road, and joined us at the door. Col. 
H. instantly asked him to enter, which he did. When he came 
fully into the light, we discovered that he had been drinking. 
His eyes bore sufficient testimony to the fact, though his drunken- 
ness seemed to have subsided into something like stupor. His 
looks were heavy, rather than calm. He said nothing, but drew 
nigh to tne fireplace, and seated himself upon one corner of the 
hearth. I now discovered that his hands and hunting shirt were 
Btained with blood. His eyes beheld the bloody tokens at the same 


OAKATIBBR 


l£l 

time, and he turned his hand curiously over, and examined it by 
the fire-light. 

“ Kurnel,” said he, in broken English, “ me is one dog fool !’ 

“ How, Sampson ?” 

“Me drunk — me fight — me kill Loblolly Jack! Look ya ! 
Dis blood ’pon my hands. ’Tis Loblolly Jack blood ! He dead ! 
I stick him wid de knife !” 

“ Impossible ! What made you do it ?” 

“Me drunk ! Me dog fool ! — Drink whiskey at liquor shop — 
hab money — buy whiskey — drunk come, and Loblolly Jack 
dead !” 

This was the substance of the story, which was confirmed a 
few moments after, by the appearance of several other Indians, 
the friends of the two parties. From these it appeared that all of 
them had been drinking, at the shop of Ligon, the white man ; 
that, when heated with liquor, both Loblolly Jack and Slim Samp- 
son had, as with one accord, resumed the strife which had beett 
arrested by the prompt interference of Col. H. ; that, from words 
they had got to blows, and the former had fallen, fatally hurt, by 
a single stroke from the other’s hand and knife. 

The Indian law, like that of the Hebrews, is eye for eye, tooth 
for tooth, life for life. The fate of Slim Sampson was ordained 
He was to die on the morrow. This was well understood by him. 
self as by all the rest. The wound of Loblolly Jack had proved 
mortal. He was already dead ; and it vyas arranged among the 
parties that Slim Sampson was to remain that night, if permitted, 
at the house of Col. H., and to come forth at early sunrise to ex- 
ecution. Col. H. declared his willingness that the criminal should 
remain in his house ; but, at the same time, disclaimed all respon- 
sibility in the business ; and assured the old chief, whose name 
was “ Rising Smoke,” that he would not be answerable for his 
appearance. 

“ He won’t ran,” said the other, indifferently. 

“ But you will not put a watch over him — I will not suffer 
more than the one to sleep in my house.” 

The old chief repeated his assurance that Slim Sampson would 
not seek to fly. No guard was to be placed over him. He was 


198 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


expected to remain quiet, and come forth to execution at the hour 
appointed. 

“ He got for dead,” continued Rising Smoke — “ he know the 
/aw. He will come and dead like a man. Oakatibbe got big 
heart.” Every word which the old fellow uttered went to mine. 

What an eulogy was this upon Indian inflexibility ! What con- 
fidence in the passive obedience of the warrior ! After a little 
farther dialogue, they departed, — friends and enemies — and the 
unfortunate criminal was left with us alone. He still maintained 
his seat upon the hearth. His muscles were composed and calm 
— not rigid. His thoughts, however, were evidently busy ; and, 
once or twice, I could see that his head was moved slowly from 
side to side, with an expression of mournful self-abandonment. I 
watched every movement and look with the deepest interest, while 
Col. H. with a concern necessarily deeper than my own, spoke with 
him freely, on the subject of his crime. It was, in fact, because 
of the affair of Col. H. that the unlucky deed was committed. It 
was true, that, for this, the latter gentleman was in no wise respon- 
sible ; but that did not lessen, materially, the pain which he felt 
at having, however unwittingly, occasioned it. He spoke with 
the Indian in such terms of condolence as conventional usage 
among us has determined to be the most proper. He proffered to 
buy off the friends and relatives of the deceased, if the offence 
could be commuted for money. The poor fellow was very grate 
ful, but, at the same time, told him that the attempt was useless. 
— The tribe had never been known to permit such a thing, and 
the friends of Loblolly Jack were too much his enemies, to con- 
sent to any commutation of the penalty. 

Col. H., however, was unsatisfied, and determined to try the 
experiment. The notion had only suggested itself to him after 
the departure of the Indians. He readily conjectured where he 
should find them, and we immediately set off for the grogshop of 
Ligon. This was little more than a quarter of a mile from the 
plantation. When we reached it, we found the Indians, gene- 
rally, in the worst possible condition to be treated with. They 
were, most of them, in the last stages of intoxication. The dead 
body of rhe murdered man was stretched out in the piazza, or 
gallery, half covered with a bear-skin. The breast was hire — 


OAKATIBBE. 


199 


a broad, bold, manly bosom — and the wound, a deep narrow gash, 
around which the blood stood, clotted, in thick, frothy masses. 
The nearer relations of the deceased, were perhaps the most 
drunk of the assembly. Their grief necessarily entitled them to 
the greatest share of consolation, and this took the form of whis- 
key. Their love of excess, and the means of indulgence, 
encouraged us with the hope that their vengeance might be bought 
otf without much difficulty, but we soon found ourselves very 
much deceived. Every effort, every offer, proved fruitless ; and 
after vainly exhausting every art and argument, old Rising 
Smoke drew us aside to tell us that the thing was impossible. 

“ Oakatibbe hab for die, and no use for talk. De law is make 
for Oakatibbe, and Loblolly Jack, and me, Rising Smoke, and all, 
just the same'. Oakatibbe will dead to-morrow.” 

With sad hearts, we left the maudlin and miserable assembly. 
When we returned, we found Slim Sampson employed in carving 
with his knife upon the handle of his tomahawk. In the space 
thus made, he introduced a small bit of flattened silver, which 
seemed to have been used for a like purpose on some previous 
occasion. It was rudely shaped like a bird, and was probably 
one of those trifling ornaments which usually decorate the stocks 
of rifle and shot-gun. I looked with increasing concern upon 
his countenance. What could a spectator — one unacquainted 
with the circumstances — have met with there ? Nothing, surely, 
of that awful event which had just ta.ien place, and of that doom 
which now seemed so certainly to await him. He betrayed no 
sort of interest in our mission. His look and manner denoted his 
own perfect conviction of its inutility ; and when we told him 
what had taken place, he neither answered nor looked up. 

It would be difficult to describe my feelings and those of my 
companion. Tfie more we reflected upon the affair, the more 
painful and oppressive did our thoughts become. A pain, little 
short of horror, coupled itself with every emotion. We left the 
Indian still beside the fire. He had begun a low chanting song 
just before we retired, in his own language, which was meant as a 
narrative of the chief events of his life. The death song — for such 
it W as — is neither more nor less than a recital of those deeds 
which it will be creditable to a son or a relative to r ‘member. 


200 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


In this way the valor of their great men, and the leading evenls 
in their history, are transmitted through successive ages. He 
was evidently refreshing his own memory in preparation for the 
morrow. He was arranging the narrative of the past, in prope. 
form for the acceptance of the future. 

We did not choose to disturb him in this vocation, and retired. 
When we had got to our chamber, H. who already, had one boot 
off, exclaimed suddenly — “ Look you, S., this fellow ought not 
to perish in this manner. We should make an effort to save him. 
We must save him !” 

“ What will you do ?” 

“ Come — let us go back and try and urge him to flight. He 
can escape easily while all these fellows are drunk. He shall 
have my best horse for the purpose.’’ 

We returned to the apartment. 

“ Slim Sampson.” 

“ Kurnel !” was the calm reply. 

“ There’s no sense in your staying here to be shot.” 

“ Ugh !” was the only answer, but in an assenting tone. 

“ You’re not a bad fellow — you didn’t mean to kill Loblolly 
.'ack — it’s very hard that you should die for what you didn’t wish 
to do. You’re too young to die. You’ve got a great many years 
to live. You ought to live to be an old man and have sons like 
yourself ; and there’s a great deal of happiness in this world, if 
a man only knows where to look for it. But a man that’s dead 
is of no use to himself, or to his friends, or his enemies. Why 
should you die — why should you be shot ?” 

“ Eh ?” 

“ Hear me ; your people are all drunk at Ligon’s — blind drunk 
— deaf drunk — they can neither see nor hear. ^They won’t get 
sober till morning — perhaps not then. You’ve been across the 
Mississippi, hav’nt you ? You know the way ?” 

The reply was affirmative. 

“ Many Choctaws live over the Mississippi now — on the Red 
River, and far beyond, to the Red Hills. Go to them— they will 
take you by the hand — they will give you one of their daughters 
to wife — they will love you — they will make you a chief. Fly, 
Sampson, fly .o them — you shall have one of my horses, and be- 


OAKATIBBE. 


201 


c (»re daylight you will be down the country, among the white peo- 
ple, and far from your enemies — Go, my good fellow, it would be 
a great pity that so brave a man should die.” 

This was the substance of my friend’s exhortation. It was put 
into every shape, and addressed to every fear, hope, or passion 
which might possibly have influence over the human bosom. A 
strong conflict took place in the mind of the Indian, the outward 
1 igns of which were not wholly suppressible. He started to his 
feet, trod the floor hurriedly, and there was a tremulous quickness 
m the movement of his eyes, and a dilation of their orbs, which 
amply denoted the extent of his emotion. He turned suddenly 
upon us, when H. had finished speaking, and replied in language 
very nearly like the following. 

“ I love the whites — I was always a friend to the whites. I 
believe I love their laws better than my own. Loblolly Jack 
laughed at me because I loved the whites, and wanted our people 
to live like them. But I am of no use now. I can love them no 
more. My people say that I must die. How can I live ?” 

Such was the purport of his answer. The meaning of it was 
Simple. He was not unwilling to avail himself of the suggestions 
of my friend — to fly — to live — but he could not divest himself of 
that habitual deference to those laws to which he had given im- 
plicit reverence from the beginning. Custom is the superior ty- 
rant of all savage nations. 

To embolden him on this subject, was now the joint object of 
Col. H. and myself. We spared no argument to convince him 
that he ought to fly. It was something in favour of our object, that 
the Indian regards the white man as so infinitely his superior ; 
and, in the case of Slim Sampson, we were assisted by his own 
inclinations in favour of those customs of the whites, which he had 
already in part begun to adopt. We discussed for his benefit 
that which may be considered one of the leading elements in 
civilization — the duty of saving and keeping life as long as we 
can — insisted upon the morality of flying from any punishment 
which would deprive us of it ; and at length had the satisfaction 
of seeing him convinced. He yielded to our arguments and so- 
licitations, accepted the horse, which he promised voluntarily to find 
some early means to return, and, with a sigh— perhaps one of the 


202 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


first proofs ' of that change of feeling and of principle wn^ch he 
.lad just shown, he declared his intention to take the road in- 
stantly. 

“ Go to bed, Kurnel. Your horse will come back.” We re- 
tired, and a few moments after heard him leave the house. I 
am sure that both of us felt a degree of light-heartedness which 
scarcely any other event could have produced. We could not 
sleep, however. For myself I answer — it was almost dawn be- 
fore I fell into an uncertain slumber, filled with visions of scuffling 
Indians — the stark corse of Loblolly Jack, being the conspicuou 
object, and Slim Sampson standing up for execution. 



OAKATIBBE. 


203 


CHAPTER IY. 

Neither Col. H. nor myself arose at a very early hour. Oui 
first thoughts and feelings at waking were tl ose of exultation. 
We rejoiced that we had been instrumental in saving from an ig- 
nominious death, a fellow creature, and one who seemed so worthy, 
in so many respects. Our exultation was not a little increased, 
as we reflected on the disappointment of his enemies ; and we 
enjoyed a hearty laugh together, as we talked over the matter 
while putting on our clothes. When we looked from the window 
the area in front of the house was covered with Indians. The}? 
sat, or stood, or walked, all around the dwelling. The hour ap. 
jx>inted for the delivery of Slim Sampson had passed, yet they 
betrayed no emotion. We fancied, however, that we could dis- 
cern in the countenances of most among them, the sentiment of 
friendship or hostility for the criminal, by which they were sev- 
erally governed. A dark, fiery look of exultation — a grim an- 
ticipation of delight — was evident in the faces of his enemies ; 
while, among his friends, men and women, a subdued concern and 
humbling sadness, were the prevailing traits of expression. 

But when we went below to meet them — when it became 
known that the murderer had fled, taking with him the best horse 
f the proprietor, the outbreak was tremendous. A terrible yell 
went up from the party devoted to Loblolly Jack ; while the 
friends and relatives of Slim Sampson at once sprang to their 
weapons, and put themselves in an attitude of defence. We had 
not foreseen the effects of our interposition and advice. We did 
not know, or recollect, that the nearest connection of the criminal, 
among the Indian tribes, in the event of his escape, would be re- 
quired to suffer in his place ; and this, by the way, is the grand 
source of that security which they felt the night before, that flight 
would not be attempted by the destined victim. The aspect of 
affairs looked squally. Already was the bow bent and the toma- 
hawk lifted. Already had the parties separated, each going to 


204 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


nis own side, and ranging himself in front )f some one opponent. 
The women sunk rapidly into the rear, and provided themselves 
with billets or fence- rails, as they occurred to their hands ; while 
little brats of boys, ten and twelve years old, kept up a continual 
shrill clamour, brandishing aloft their tiny bows and blow-guns, 
which were only powerful against the lapwing and the sparrow. 
In political phrase, “a great crisis was at hand.” The stealthier 
chiefs and leaders of both sides, had sunk from sight, behind the 
trees or houses, in order to avail themselves of all the arts of In- 
dian strategy. Every thing promised a sudden and stern conflict. 
At the first show of commotion, Col. H. had armed himself. I 
had been well provided with pistols and bowie knife, before leav- 
ing home ; and, apprehending the worst, we yet took our places 
as peace-makers, between the contending parties. 

It is highly probable that all our interposition would have been 
fruitless to prevent their collision; and, though our position cer- 
tainly delayed the progress of the quarrel, yet all we could have 
hoped to effect by our interference would have been the removal 
of the combatants to a more remote battle ground. But a circum- 
stance that surprised and disappointed us all, took place, to settle 
the strife forever, and to reconcile the parties without any resort to 
blows. While the turmoil was- at the highest, and we had des- 
paired of doing any thing to prevent bloodshed, the tramp of a 
fast galloping horse was heard in the woods, and the next moment 
the steed of Col. H. made his appearance, covered with foam, 
Slim Sampson on his back, and still driven by the lash of his rider 
at the top of his speed. He leaped the enclosure, and was drawn 
up still quivering in every limb, in the area between the opposing 
Indians. The countenance of the noble fellow told his story. His 
heart had smitten him by continual reproaches, at the adoption of 
a conduct . unknown in his nation ; and which all its hered- 
itary opinions had made cowardly and infamous. Besides, he 
remembered the penalties which, in consequence of his flight, must 
fall heavily upon his people. Life was sweet to him — very sweet ! 
He had the promise of many bright years before him. His mind 
was full of honourable and — speaking in comparative phrase — 
lofty purposes, for the improvement of himself and nation. We 
have already sought to show that, by his conduct, he had taken 


OAKATIBBti. 


205 


one large step in resistance to the tyrannous usages of custom, in 
order to introduce the elements of civilization among his people* 
But he could not withstand the reproaches of a conscience formed 
upon principles which his own genius was not equal to overthrow. 
His thoughts, during his flight, must have been of a very humbling 
character; but his features now denoted only pride, exultation 
and a spirit strengthened by resignation against the worst. By 
his flight and subsequent return; he had, in fact, exhibited a more 
lively spectacle of moral firmness, than would have been display- 
ed by his simple submission in remaining. He seemed to feel 
this. It looked out from his soul in every movement of his body. 
He leaped from his horse, exclaiming, while he slapped his breast 
with his open palm : 

“ Oakatibbe heard the voice of a chief, that said he must die. 
Let the chief look here — Oakatibbe is come ! ” 

A shout went up from both parties. The signs of strife disap- 
peared. The language of the crowd was no longer that of threat- 
ening and violence. It was understood that there would be no re- 
sistance in behalf of the condemned. Col. H. and myself, were 
both mortified and disappointed. Though the return of Slim 
Sampson, had obviously prevented a combat a outrance, in which 
a dozen or more might have been slain, still we could not but re- 
gret the event. The life of such a fellow seemed to both of us, to 
be worth the lives of any hundred of his people. 

Never did man carry with himself more simple nobleness. He 
was at once surrounded by his friends and relatives. The hostile 
party, from whom the executioners were to be drawn, stood look- 
ing on at some little distance, the very pictures of patience. There 
was no sort of disposition manifested among them, to hurry the 
proceedings. Though exulting in the prospect of soon shedding 
the blood of one whom they esteemed an enemy, yet all was dig- 
nified composure and forbearance. The signs of exultation were 
no where to be seen. Meanwhile, a conversation was carried on 
in low, soft accents, unmarked by physical action of any kind, 
between the condemned and two other Indians. One of these was 
the unhappy mother of the criminal — the other was his uncle. 
They rather listened to his remarks, than made any of their own. 
The dialogue was conducted in their own language. After a 


206 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


while this ceased, and he made a signal which seemed to be felt, 
rather than understood, by all the Indians, friends and enemies. 
All of them started into instant intelligence. It was a sign that he 
was ready for the final proceedings. He rose to his feet and they 
surrounded him. The groans of the old woman, his mother, were 
now distinctly audible, and she was led away by the uncle, who, 
placing her among the other women^returned to the condemned, 
beside whom he now took his place. Col. H. and myself, also 
drew nigh. Seeing us, Oakatibbe simply said, with a smile : 

“ Ah, kurnel, you see, Injun man ain’t strong like whiteman !” 

Col. H. answered with emotion. 

“ I would have saved you, Sampson.” 

“ Oakatibbe hab for dead !” said the worthy fellow, with anoth- 
er, but a very wretched smile. 

His firmness was unabated. A procession was formed, which 
was headed by three sturdy fellows, carrying their rifles conspic- 
uously upon their shoulders. These were the appointed execu- 
tioners, and were all near relatives of the man who had been slain. 
There was no mercy in their looks. Oakatibbe followed imme- 
diately after these. He seemed pleased that w^e should accom- 
pany him to the place of execution. Our way lay through a long 
avenue of stunted pines, which conducted us to a spot where an 
elevated ridge on either hand produced a broad and very prettily 
defined valley. My eyes, in all this progress, were scarcely ever 
draw'n off from the person of him who was to be the principal actor 
in the approaching scene. Never, on any occasion, did I behold 
a man with a step more firm — a head so unbent — a countenance 
so sweetly calm, though grave — and of such quiet unconcern, at 
the obvious fate in view. Yet there w'as nothing in his deport- 
ment of that effort which w'ould be the case w'ith most white men 
on a similar occasion, who seek to wear the aspect of heroism. 
He walked as to a victory, but he walked with a staid, even dignity, 
calmly, and without the flush of any excitement on his cheek. 
In his eye there was none of that feverish curiosity, w'hich seeks 
for the presence of his executioner, and cannot be averted from 
the contemplation of the mournful paraphernalia of death. His 
look was like that of the strong man, conscious of his inevitable 


OAKATIBBE. 


207 


dcxim, and prepared, as it is inevitable, to meet it with corres- 
ponding indifference. 

The grave was now before us. It must have been prepared at 
the first dawn of the morning. The executioners paused, when 
they ^ad reached a spot within thirty steps of it. But the con- 
demned passed on, and stopped only on the edge of its open jaws. 
The last trial was at hand with all its terrors. The curtain was 
about to drop, and the scene of life, with all its hopes and prom- 
ises and golden iovs — even to an Indian golden — was to be shut 
forever. I felt a painful and numbing chill pass through my 
frame, but I could behold no sign of change in him. He now 
beckoned his friends around him. His enemies drew nigh also, 
but in a remoter circle. He was about to commence his song of 
death — the narrative of his performances, his purposes, all his 
living experience. He began a low chant, slow, measured and 
composed, the words seeming to consist of monosyllables only. 
As he proceeded, his eyes kindled, and his arms were extended. 
His action became impassioned, his utterance more rapid, and the 
tones were distinguished by increasing warmth. I could not un- 
derstand a single word which he uttered, but the cadences were 
true and full of significance. The rise and fall of his voice, tru- 
ly proportioned to the links of sound by which they were con- 
nected, would have yielded a fine lesson to the European teacher 
of school eloquence. His action was as graceful as that of a 
mighty tree yielding to and gradually rising from the pressure 
of a sudden gust. I felt the eloquence which I could not under- 
stand. I fancied, from his tones and gestures, the play of the 
muscles of his mouth, and the dilation of his eyes, that I could 
detect the instances of daring valour, or good conduct, which his 
narrative comprised. One portion of it, as he approached the 
close, I certainly could not fail to comprehend. He evidently 
spoke of his last unhappy affray with the man whom he had 
slain. His head was bowed — the light passed from his eyes, his 
hands were folded upon his heart, and his voice grew thick and 
husky. Then came the narrative of his flight. His glance was 
turned upon Col. II. and myself, and, at the close, he extended his 
hand to us both. We grasped it earnestly, and with a degree of 
emotion which I would not now seek to describe. He paused 


208 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


The catastrophe was at hand. I saw him step back, so as to 
place himself at the very verge of the grave — he then threw open 
his breast — a broad, manly, muscular bosom, that, would have 
sufficed for a Hercules — one hand he struck upon the spot above 
the heart, where it remained — the other was raised above his 
head. This was the signal. I turned away with a strange sick- 
ness. I could look no longer. In the next instant I heard the 
simultaneous report, as one, of the three rifles, and when I again 
looked, they were shoveling in the fresh mould, upon the nobie 
form of one, who, under other more favouring circumstances, 
might have been a father to his nation. 


JOCASSEE. 


200 


JOCASSEE. 

A CHEROKEE LEGEND 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Kiowee Old Fort,” as the people in that quarter style it, is a 
fine antique ruin and relic of the revolution, in the district of 
Pendleton, South Carolina. The region of country in which we 
find it is, of itself, highly picturesque and interesting. The 
broad river of Keowee, which runs through it, though compara- 
tively small as a stream in America, would put to shame, by its 
size not less than its beauty, one half of the far-famed and 
boasted rivers of Europe ; — and then the mountains, through and 
among which it winds its way, embody more of beautiful situa- 
tion and romantic prospect, than art can well figure to the eye, 
or language convey to the imagination. To understand, you 
must see- it. Words are of little avail when the ideas overcrowd 
utterance ; and even vanity itself is content to be dumb in the 
awe inspired by a thousand prospects, like Niagara, the ideals of 
a god, and altogether beyond the standards common to humanity. 

It is not long since l wandered through this interesting region, 

under the guidance of my friend, Col. G , who does the hon- 

ours of society, in that quarter, with a degree of ease and unos- 
tentatious simplicity, which readily makes the visiter at home. 
My friend was one of those citizens to whom one’s <3wn country 
is always of paramount interest, and whose mind and memory, 
accordingly, have been always most happily employed when 
storing away and digesting into pleasing narrative those thousand 
little traditions of the local genius, which give life to rocks and 
valleys, and people earth with the beautiful colours and creatures 


9i0 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


of the imagination. These, for the gratification of the spiritual 
seeker, he had forever in readiness ; and, with him to illustrate 
them, it is not surprising if the grove had a moral existence in 
my thoughts, and all the waters around breathed and were in- 
stinct with poetry. To all his narratives I listened with a satis- 
faction which book-stories do not often afford me. The more he 
told, the more he had to tell ; for nothing staled 

“ His infinite variety.” 

There may have been something in the style of telling his sto- 
ries ; there was much, certainly, that was highly attractive in 
his manner of doing every thing, and this may have contributed 
not a little to the success of his narratives. Perhaps, too, my 
presence, upon the very scene of each legend, may have given 
them a life and a vraisemblance they had wanted otherwise. 

In this manner, rambling about from spot to spot, I passed five 
weeks, without being, at any moment, conscious of time’s prog- 
ress. Day after day, we wandered forth in some new direction, 
contriving always to secure, and without effort, that pleasurable 
excitement of novelty, for which the great city labours in vain, 
spite of her varying fashions, and crowding, and not always inno- 
cent indulgences. From forest to river, from hill to valley, still 
on horseback,— for the mountainous character of the country for- 
bade any more luxurious form of travel, — we kept on our way, 
always changing our ground with the night, and our prospect 
with the morning. In this manner we travelled over or round 
the Six Mile, and the Glassy, and a dozen other mountains ; and 
sometimes, with a yet greater scope of adventure, pushed off* on 
a much longer ramble, — such as took us to the falls of the White 
Water, and gave us a glimpse of the beautiful river of Jocassee, 
named sweetly after the Cherokee maiden, who threw herself 
into its bosom on beholding the scalp of her lover dangling from 
the neck of his conqueror. The story is almost a parallel to that 
of the sister of Horatius, with this difference, that the Cherokee 
girl did not wait for the vengeance of her brother, and altogether 
spared her reproaches. I tell the story, which is pleasant and 
curious, in the language of my friend, from whom I first heard it. 

“ The Occonies and the Little Estatoees, or, rather, the Brown 


JOCASSEE. 


21 - 


Vipers and the Green Birds, were both minor tribes f the Chero- 
kee nation, between whom, as was not unfrequently the case, 
there sprung up a deadly enmity. The Estatoees had their town 
on each side of the two creeks, which, to this day, keep their 
name, and on the eastern side of the Keowee river. The Occo- 
nies occupied a much larger extent of territory, but it lay on the 
opposite, or west side of the same stream. Their differences were 
supposed to have arisen from the defeat of Chatuga, a favourite 
leader of the Occonies, who aimed to be made a chief of the na- 
tion at large. The Estatoee warrior, Toxaway, was successful ; 
and as the influence of Chatuga was considerable with his tribe, 
he laboured successfully to engender in their bosoms a bitter dis- 
like of the Estatoees. This feeling was made to exhibit itself on 
every possible occasion. The Occonies had no word too foul by 
which to describe the Estatoees. They likened them* in familiar 
speech, to every thing which, in the Indian imagination, is ac- 
counted low and contemptible. In reference to war, they were 
reputed women, — in all other respects, they were compared to 
dogs and vermin ; and, with something of a Christian taste and 
temper, they did not scruple, now and then, to invoke the devil 
of their more barbarous creed, for the eternal disquiet of their 
successful neighbours, the Little Estatoees, and their great chief,. 
Toxaway. 

“ In this condition of things there could not be much harmony ; 
and, accordingly, as if by mutual consent, there was but little 
intercourse between the two people. When they met, it was 
either to regard one another with a cold, repulsive distance, or 
else, as enemies, actively to foment quarrel and engage in strife. 
But seldom, save on national concerns, did the Estatoees cross the 
Keowee to the side held by the Occonies ; and the latter, more 
numerous, and therefore less reluctant for strife than their rivals, 
were yet not often found on the opposite bank of the same river. 
Sometimes, however, small parties of hunters from both tribts, 
rambling in one direction or another, would pass into the enemy’s 
territory ; but this was not frequent, and when they met, quarrel 
and bloodshed were sure to mark the adventure. 

“ But there was one young warrior of the Estatoees, who did 
not give much heed to this condition of parties, and who, moved 


2 12 THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 

by an errant spirit, and wholly insensible to fear, would not hesi- 
tate, when the humour seized him, to cross the river, making 
quite as free, when he did so, with the hunting-grounds of the 
Occonies as they did themselves. This sort of conduct did not 
please the latter very greatly, but Nagoochie was always so gentle, 
and at the same time so brave, that the young warriors of Occony 
either liked or feared him too much to throw themselves often in 
his path, or labour, at any time, to arrest his progress. 

“ In one of these excursions, Nagoochie made the acquaintance 
of Jocassee, one of the sweetest of the dusky daughters of 
Occony. He was rambling, with bow and quiver, in pursuit of 
game, as was his custom, along that beautiful enclosure which 
the whites have named after her, the Jocassee valley. The cir- 
cumstances under which they met were all strange and exciting, 
and well calculated to give her a power over thq young hunter, 
to which the pride of the Indian does not often suffer him to 
submit. It was towards evening when Nagoochie sprung a fine 
buck from a hollow of the wood beside him, and just before 
you reach the ridge of rocks which hem in and form this beauti- 
ful valley. With the first glimpse of his prey flew the keen 
shaft of Nagoochie ; but, strange to say, though renowned as a 
hunter, not less than as a warrior, the arrow failed entirely and flew 
wide of the victim. Off he bounded headlong after the fortunate 
buck ; but though, every now and then getting him within range. 
— for the buck took the pursuit coolly, — the hunter still most un- 
accountably failed to strike him. Shaft after shaft had fallen 
seemingly hurtless from his sides ; and though, at frequent inter- 
vals, suffered to approach so nigh to the animal that he could not but 
hope still for better fortune, to his great surprise, the wary buck 
would <lash off’ when he least expected it, bounding away in some 
new direction, with as much life and vigour as ever. What to 
think of this, the hunter knew not ; but such repeated disappoint- 
ments at length impressed it strongly upon his mind, that the 
object he pursued was neither more nor less than an Occony 
wizard, seeking to entrap him ; so, with a due feeling of super- 
stition, and a small touch of sectional venom aroused, into action 
within his heart, Nagoochie, after the manner of his people 
promised a green bird — the emblem of his tribe — in sacrifice tf) 


JOCASSEE. 


213 


the tutelar divinity of Estato, if he could only be permilted to 
overcome the pjtent enchanter, who had thus dazzled his aim and 
blunted his arrows. He had hardly uttered this vow, when he 
beheld the insolent d3er mincingly grazing upon a beautiful tuft 
of long grass in the valley, just below the ledge of rock upon 
which he stood. Without more ado, he pressed onward to bring 
him within fair range of his arrows, little doubting at the mo- 
ment that the Good Spirit’ had heard his prayer, and had granted 
his desire. But, in his hurry, leaping too hastily forward, and 
with eyes fixed only upon his proposed victim, his foot was caught 
by the smallest stump in the world, and the very next moment 
found him precipitated directly over the rock and into the valley, 
within a few paces of the deer, who made off with the utmost 
composure, gazing back, as he did so, in the eyes of the wounded 
hunter, for all the world, as if he enjoyed the sport mightily. 
Nagoochie, as he saw this, gravely concluded that he had fallen 
a victim to the wiles of the Occony wizard, and looked confidently 
to see half a score of Occonies upon him, taking him at a van- 
tage. Like a brave warrior, however, he did not despond, but 
determining to gather up his loins for battle and the torture, he 
sought to rise and put himself in a state of preparation. What, 
however, was his horror, to find himself utterly unable to move : 
— his leg had been broken in the fall, and he was covered with 
bruises from head to foot. 

“ Nagoochie gave himself up for lost ; but he had scarcely 
done so, when he heard a voice, — the sweetest, he thought, he had 
ever heard in his lffe,— singing a wild, pleasant song, such as the 
Occonies love, which, ingeniously enough, summed up the sundry 
reasons why the mouth, and not the eyes, had been endowed with 
the faculty of eating. These reasons were many, but the last 
is quite enough for us According to the song, had the eyes, 
and not the mouth, been employed for this purpose, there would 
soon be a famine in the land, for of all gluttons, the eyes are the 
greatest. Nagoochie groaned aloud as he. heard the song, the 
latter portion of which completely indicated the cause of his 
present misfortune. It was, indeed, the gluttony of the eyes which 
had broken his leg. This sort of allegory the Indians are fond 
of, and Jocassee knew all their legends. Certainly, thought 


214 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


Nagoochie, though his leg pained him vvofully at the time, ‘cer- 
tainly I never heard such sweet music, and such a voice.’ The 
singer advanced as she sung, and almost stumbled over him. 

“ ‘ Who are you V she asked timidly, neither retreating nor 
advancing ; and, as the wounded man looked into her face, he 
blessed the Occony wizard, by whose management he deemed 
Ins leg to have been broken. 

“ ‘ Look !’ was the reply of the young warrior, throwing 
aside the bearskin which covered his bosom, — ‘ look, girl of Oc- 
cony ! ’tis the totem, of a chief and the green bird stampei 
upon his left breast, as the badge of his tribe, showed him a 
warrior of Estato, and something of an enern} . But his eyes 
had no enmity, and then the broken leg ! Jocassee was a gentle 
maiden, and her heart melted with the condition of the warrior. 
She made him a sweet promise, in very pretty language, and with 
the very same voice the music of which was so delicious ; and 
then, with the fleetness of a young doe, she went off to bring him 
succ jur. 


JOCASSEE. 


215 


CHAPTER II. 

“ Night, in the meanwhile, came on ; and the long howl of 
the wolf, as he looked down from the crag, and waited for the 
thick darkness in which to descend the valley, came freezingly 
to the ear of Nagoochie. ‘ Surely,’ he said to himself, ‘ the girl 
of Occony will come back. She has too sweet a voice not to 
keep her word. She will certainly come back.’ While he 
doubted, he believed. Indeed, though still a very young maiden, 
the eyes of Jocassee had in them a great deal that was good for 
little beside, than to persuade and force conviction ; and the be- 
lief in them was pretty extensive in the circle of her rustic ac- 
quaintance. All people love to believe in fine eyes, and nothing 
is more natural than for lovers to swear by them. Nagoochie did 
not swear by those of Jocassee, but he did most religiously be- 
lieve* 1 in them; and though the night gathered fast, and the long 
howl of the wolf came close from his crag, down into the valley, 
the young hunter of the green bird did not despair of the return 
of the maiden. 

“ She did return, and the warrior was insensible. But the 
motion stirred him ; the lights gleamed upon him from many 
torches ; he opened his eyes, and when they rested upon Jocassee 
they forgot to close again. She had brought aid enough, for hei 
voice was powerful as well as musical ; and, taking due care 
that the totem of the green bird should be carefully concealed by 
the bearskin, with which her own hands covered his bosom, she 
had him lifted upon a litter, constructed of several young sap- 
lings, which, interlaced with withes, binding it closely together, 
and strewn thickly with leaves, made a couch as soft as the 
wounded man could desire. In a few hours, and the form of 
Nagoochie rested beneath the roof of Attakulla, the sire of Jo- 
cassee. She sat beside the young hunter, and it was her hand 
that placed the fever balm upon his lips- and poured into his 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN 


wounds and bruises the strong and efficacious balsams of Indian 
pharmacy. 

“ Never was nurse more careful of her charge. Day and 
night she watched by him, and few were the hours which she 
then required for her own pleasure or repose. Yet why was Jo- 
cassee so devoted to the stranger ? She never asked herself so 
unnecessary a question ; but as she was never so well satisfied, 
seemingly, as when near him, the probability is she found plea- 
sure in her tendance. It was fortunate for him and for her, that 
her father was not rancorous towards the people of the Green 
Bird, like the rest of the Occonies. It might have fared hard 
with Nagoochie otherwise. But Attakulla was a wise old man, 
and a good ; and when they brought the wounded stranger to his 
lodge, he freely yielded him shelter, and went forth himself to 
Chinabee, the wise medicine of the Occonies. The eyes of Na- 
goochie were turned upon the old chief, and when he heard his 
name, and began to consider where he was, he was unwilling to 
task the hospitality of one who might -be disposed to regard him, 
when known, in an unfavourable or hostile light. Throwing 
aside, therefore, the habit of circumspection, which usually dis- 
tinguishes the Indian warrior, he uncovered his bosom, and- bade 
the old man look upon the totem of his people, precisely as he had 
done when his eye first met that of Jocassee. 

“‘Thy name? What do the people of the Green Bird call 
the |»oung hunter V asked Attakulla. 

“ ‘ They name Nagoochie among the braves of the Estato : 
they will call him a chief of the Cherokee, like Toxaway, 5 was 
the proud reply. 

“ This reference was to a sore subject with the Occonies, and 
perhap's it was quite as imprudent as it certainly was in improper 
taste for him to make it. But, knowing where he was, excited by 
fever, and having — to say much in little — but an unfavourable 
opinion of Occony magnanimity, he was more rash than reason- 
able. At that moment, too, Jocassee had made her appearance, 
and the spirit of the young warrior, desiring to look big in her 
eyes, had prompted him to a fierce speech not altogether necessa- 
ry. He Knew no- the generous nature of Attakulla ; and when 
the old man took him by the hand, spoke well of the Green Bird, 


JOCASSEE. 


217 


and called him his ‘son,’ the pride of Nagoochie was something 
humbled, while his heart grew gentler than ever. His ‘ son !’ — 
that was the pleasant part; and as the thoughts grew more and 
more active in his fevered brain, he looked to Jocassee with such 
a passionate admiration that she sunk back with a happy smile 
from the flame-glance which he set upon her. And, day after 
day she tended him until the fever passed off, and the broken 
limb was set and had reknitted, and the bruises were all healed 
upon him. Yet he lingered. He did not think himself quite 
well* and she always agreed with him in opinion. Once and 
again did he set off, determined not to return, but his limb pained 
him, and he felt the fever come back whenever he thought ot 
Jocassee ; and so the evening found him again at the lodge, while 
the fever-balm, carefully bruised in milk, was in as great demand 
as ever for the invalid. But the spirit of the warrior at length 
grew ashamed of these weaknesses ; and, with a desperate effort, 
for which he gave himself no little credit, he completed his deter- 
mination to depart with the coming of the new moon. But even 
this decision was only effected by compromise. Love settled the 
affair with conscience, after his own fashion ; and, under Ips di- 
rection, following the dusky maiden into the little grove that stood 
beside the cottage, Nagoochie claimed her to fill the lodge of a 
young warrior of the Green Bird. She broke the wand which 
he presented her, and seizing upon the torch which she carried, 
he buried it in the bosom of a neighbouring brook ; and thus, aftei 
their simple forest ceremonial, Jocassee became the betrothed of 
Nagoochie. 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


2J3 


CHAPTER III. 

l< But we must keep this secret to ourselves, for as yet u re. 
mained unknown to Attakulla, and the time could not come for 
if revealment until the young warrior had gone home to his peo 
p] Jocassee was not so sure that all parties would be so ready 
a? he/self to sanction her proceeding. Of her father’s willingness, 
she had no question, for she knew his good nature andgood sense ; 
but she had a brother of whom she had many fears and misgivings. 
He wasaway, on a great hunt of the young men, up at Chara- 
shilactay, or the falls of the White Water, as we call it to this 
day — a beautiful cascade of nearly forty feet, the water of which 
is of a milky complexion. How she longed, yet how she dreaded, 
to see that brother! He was a fierce, impetuous, sanguinary 
youth, who, to these characteristics, added another still more dis- 
tasteful to Jocassee ; — there was not a man among all the Occo- 
nies who so hated the people of the Green Bird as Cheochee. 
What hopes, or rather what fears, were in the bosom of that 
maiden ! 

“ But he came not. Day after day they looked for his return, 
and yet he came not ; but in his place a runner, with a bearded 
stick, a stick covered with slips of skin, torn from the body of a 
wolf. The runner passed by the lodge of Attakulla, and all its 
inmates were aroused by the intelligence he brought. A wolf- 
hunt was commanded by Moitoy, the great war-chief or general- 
issimo of the Cherokee nation, to take place, instantly, at Chara- 
shilactay, where an immense body of wolves had herded together, 
and had become troublesome neighbours. Old and young, who 
had either taste for the adventure, or curiosity to behold it, at 
once set off upon the summons; and Attakulla, old as he was, 
and Nagoochie, whose own great prowess in hunting had made it 
a passion, determined readily upon the journey. Jocassee, too, 
joined the company, — for the maidens of Cherokee were bold 
spirits, as well as beautiful, and loved to ramble, particularly 


JOCASSEE. 


213 


when, as in the present instance, they went forth in company with 
their lovers. Lodge after lodge, as they pursued . their way, 
poured forth its inmates, who joined them in their progress, until 
the company had swollen into a goodly caravan, full of life, 
anxious for sport, and carrying, as is the fashion among the In- 
dians, provisions of smoked venison and parched grain, in plenty, 
*or many days. 

“ They came at length to the swelling hills, the long narrow 
valleys of the Keochee and its tribute river of Toxaway, named 
after that great chief of the Little Estatoees, of whom we have 
already heard something. At one and the same moment they 
Deheld the white waters of Charashilactay, plunging over the 
precipice, and the hundred lodges of the Cherokee hunters. There 
they had gathered — the warriors and their women — twenty dif- 
ferent tribes of the same great nation being represented on the 
ground ; each tribe having its own cluster of cabins, and rising 
up, in the midst of each, the long pole on which hung the peculiar 
emblem of the clan. It wa's not long before Nagoochie marshal- 
led himself along with his brother Estatoees — who had counted 
him lost — under the beautiful green bird of his tribe, which 
waved about in the wind, over the heads of their small commu- 
nity. 

“ The number of warriors representing the Estato in that great 
hunt was inconsiderable — but fourteen — and the accession, there- 
fore, of so promising a brave as Nagoochie, was no small matter. 
They shouted with joy at his coming, and danced gladly in the 
ring between the lodges — the young women in proper taste, and 
with due spirit, hailing, with a sweet song, the return of so hand- 
some a youth, and one who was yet unmarried. 

“ Over against the, lodges of the Estatoees, lay the more impo- 
sing encampment of the rival Occonies, who turned out strongly, 
as it happened, on this occasion. They were more numerous 
than any other of the assembled tribes, as the hunt was to take 
place on a portion of their own territory. Conscious of their su- 
periority, they had not, you may be sure, forborne any of the 
thousand sneers and sarcasms which they were never at a loss to 
find when they spoke of the Green Bird warriors ; and of all their 
clan, none was so bitter, scr uncompromising, generally, in look. 


220 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


speech, and action, as Cheochee, the fierce brother of the neauti- 
ful Jocassee. Scorn was in his eye, and sarcasm on his lips, when 
’he heard the rejoicings made by the Estatoees on the return of 
the long-lost hunter. 

“ ‘ Now wherefore screams the painted bird to-day ? why 
makes he a loud cry in the ears of the brown viper that can strike V 
he exclaimed contemptuously yet fiercely. 

“ It was Jocassee that spoke in reply to her brother, with the 
quickness of woman’s feeling, which they wrong greatly who hold 
it subservient to the strength of woman’s cunning. In her reply, 
Cheochee saw the weakness of her heart. 

“ ‘ They scream for Nagoochie,’ said the girl ; e it is joy tha 
the young hunter comes back that makes the green bird to sing 
to-day.’ 

“ ‘ Has Jocassee taken a tongue from the green bird, that she 
screams in the ears of the brown viper ? What has the girl to do 
with the thoughts of the warrior ? Let her go — go, bring drink to 
Cheochee.’ 

“ Abashed and silent, she did as he commanded, and brought 
meekly to the fierce brother, a gourd filled with the bitter beverage 
which the Cherokees love. She had nothing further to say on the 
subject of the Green Bird warrior, for whom she had already so 
unwarily spoken. But her words had not fallen unregarded 
upon the ears of Cheochee, nor had the look of the fond heart 
which spoke out in her glance, passed unseen by the keen eye of 
that jealous brother. He had long before this heard of the great 
fame of Nagoochie as a hunter, and in his ire he was bent to sur- 
pass him. Envy had grown into hate, when he heard that this 
great reputation was that of one of the accursed Estatoees ; and, 
not satisfied with the desire to emulate, he also aimed to destroy. 
This feeling worked like so much gall in his bosom ; and when 
his eyes looked upon the fine form Of Nagoochie, and beheld its 
symmetry, grace, and manhood, his desire grew into a furious 
passion which made him sleepless. The old chief, Attakulla, his 
father, told him all the story of Nagoochie’s accident — how Jo- 
cassee had found him ; and how, in his own lodge, he had been 
nursed and tended. The old man spoke approvingly of Nagoo- 
chie ; and, the better to bring about a good feeling for her lover, 


JOCASSEE. 


221 


Jocassee humbled herself greatly to her brother, — anticipated his 
desires, and studiously sought to serve him. But all this failed to 
effect a favourable emotion in the breast of the malignant young 
savage towards the young hunter of the Green Bird. He said 
nothing, however, of his feelings ; but they looked out and were 
alive to the sight, in every aspect, whenever any reference, how- 
ever small, was made to the subject of his ire. The Indian pas- 
sion is subtlety, and Cheochee was a warrior already famous 
among the old chiefs of Cherokee. 


222 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER IY. 

“ The next day came the commencement of the great hunt, and 
the warriors were up betimes and active. Stations were chosen, 
the keepers of which, converging to a centre, were to hem in the 
wild animal on whose tracks they were going. The wolves were 
known to be in a hollow of the hills, near Charashilactay, which 
had but one outlet ; and points of close approximation across 
this outlet were the stations of honour ; for, goaded by the hunters 
to this passage, and failing of egress in any other, the wolf, it was 
well known, would be then dangerous in the extreme. Well cal- 
culated to provoke into greater activity the jealousies b^ween the 
Occonies and the Green Birds, was the assignment made by Moi- 
toy, the chief, of the more dangerous of these stations to these two 
clans. They now stood alongside of one another, and the action 
of the two promised to be joint and corresponsive. Such an ap- 
pointment, in the close encounter with the wolf, necessarily prom- 
ised to bring the two parties into immediate contact ; and such 
was the event. As the day advanced, and the hunters, contract- 
ing their circles, brought the different bands of wolves into one, 
and pressed upon them to the more obvious and indeed the only 
outlet, the badges of the Green Bird and the Brown Viper — the 
one consisting of the stuffed skin and plumage of the Carolina par- 
rot, and the other the attenuated viper, filled out with moss, and 
winding, with erect head, around the pole, to the top of which it 
was stuck — were, at one moment, in the indiscriminate hunt, al- 
most mingled over the heads of the two parties. Such a sight was 
pleasant to neither, and would, at another time, of a certainty, have 
brought about a squabble. As it was, the Occonies drove their 
badge-carrier from one to the other end pf their ranks, thus stu- 
diously avoiding the chance of another collision between the viper 
so adored, and the green bird so detested. The pride of the Es- 
tatoees was exceedingly aroused at this exhibition of impertinence, 
pi.d though a quiet people enough, they began to think that for 


JOCASSEE. 


223 


bearance had been misplaced in their relations with their presum 
ing and hostile neighbours. Had it not been for Nagoochie, who 
had his own reasons for suffering yet more, the Green Birds would 
certainly have plucked out the eyes of the Brown Vipers, or tried 
very hard to do it; but the exhortations to peace of the young 
warrior, and the near neighbourhood of the wolf, quelled any open 
show of the violence they meditated ; but, Indian-like, they deter- 
mined to wait for the moment of greatest quiet, as that most fitted 
for taking away a few scalps from the Occony. With a mutter- 
ed curse, and a contemptuous slap of the hand upon their thighs, 
the more furious among the Estatoees satisfied their present anger, 
and then addressed themselves more directly to the business before 
them. 

“ The wolves, goaded to desperation by the sight and sound of 
hunters strewn all over the hills around them, were now, snapping 
and snarling, and with eyes that flashed with a terrible anger, de- 
scending the narrow gully towards the outlet held by the two ri- 
val tribes. United action was therefore demanded of those who, 
for a long time past, had been conscious of no feeling or move- 
ment in common. But here they had no choice — no time, indeed, 
.o think. The fierce wolves were upofl them, doubly furious at 
finding the only passage stuck full of enemies. Well and man- 
fully did the hunters stand and seek the encounter with the infu- 
riated beasts. The knife and the hatchet, that day, in the hand 
of Occony and Estato, did fearful execution. The Brown Vi- 
pers fought nobly, and with their ancient reputation. But the 
Green Birds were the hunters, after all; and they were now 
stimulated into double adventure and effort, by an honourable 
ambition to make up for all deficiencies of number by extra valour, 
and the careful exercise of all that skill in the arts of hunting for 
which they have always been the most renowned of the tribes of 
Cherokee. As, one by one, a fearful train, the wolves wound 
into sight along this or that crag of the gully, arrow after arrow 
told fearfully upon them, for there were no marksmen like the 
Estatoees. Nor did they stop at this weapon. The young Na- 
goochie, more than ever prompted to such audacity, led the way ; 
and dashing into the very path of the teeth-gnashing and claw, 
rending enemy, he grappled in desperate fight the first that offer- 


224 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


ed himself, and as the wide jaws of his hairy foe opened upon 
him, with a fearful plunge at his side, adroitly leaping to the right, 
he thrust a pointed stick down, deep, as far as he could send it, 
into the monster’s throat, then pressing back upon him, with the 
rapidity of an arrow, in spite of all his fearful writhings he pin- 
ned him to the ground, while his knife, in a moment after, played 
fatally in his heart. Another came, and, in a second, his hatchet 
cleft and crunched deep into the skull of the angry brute, leaving 
him senseless, without need of a second stroke. There was no ri- 
valling deeds of valour so desperate as this ; and with increased 
bitterness of soul did Cheochee and his followers hate in propor- 
tion as they admired. They saw the day close, and heard the 
signal calling them to the presence of the great chief Moitoy, con- 
scious, though superior in numbers, they could not at all compare 
in skill and success with the long-despised, but now thoroughly- 
hated Estatoees. 

“ And still more great the vexation, still more deadly the hate, 
when the prize was bestowed by the hand of Moitoy, the great 
military chief of Cherokee — when, calling around him the 
tribes, and carefully counting the number of their several spoils, 
consisting of the skins of the wolves that had been slain, it was 
found that of these the greater number, in proportion to their force, 
had fallen victims to the superior skill or superior daring of the 
people of the Green Bird. And who had been their leader ? The 
rambling Nagoochie — the young hunter who had broken his leg 
among the crags of Occony, and, in the same adventure, no long- 
er considered luckless, had won the young heart of the beautiful 
Jocassee. 

“ They bore the young and successful warrior into the centre 
of the ring, and before the great Moitoy. He stood up in the 
presence of the assembled multitude, a brave and fearless, and 
fine looking Cherokee. At the signal of the chief, the young 
maidens gathered into a group, and sung around him a song of 
compliment and approval, which was just as much as to say,— 

‘ Ask, and you shall have.’ He did ask • and before the people 
of the Brown Vioer could so far recover from their surprise as to 
interfere, or well comprehend the transaction, the bold Nagoochie 
had led the *hen happy Jocassee into the presence of Moitoy and 


JOCASSEE. 


225 


the multitude, and had claimed the girl of Occony to fill the green 
lodge of the Estato hunter. 

“ That was the signal for uproar and commotion. The Occo- 
nies were desperately angered, and the fierce Cheochee, whom 
nothing, not even the presence of the great war-chief, could re- 
strain, rushed forward, and dragging the maiden violently from 
the hold of Nagoochie, hurled her backward into the ranks of his 
people ; then, breathing nothing but blood and vengeance, he 
confronted him with ready knife and uplifted hatchet, defying the 
young hunter in that moment to the fight. 

‘ E-cha-e-cha , e-herro — echa-herro-echa-herro was the war- 
whoop of the Occonies ; and it gathered them to a man around 
the sanguinary young chief who uttered it. * Echa-herro, echa- 
herro ,’ he continued, leaping wildly in air with the paroxysm of 
rage which had seized him, — ‘ the brown viper has a tooth for the 
green bird. The Occony is athirst — he would drink blood from 
the dog-heart of the Estato. E-clia-e-cha-herro , Occony And 
again he concluded his fierce speech with that thrilling roll of 
sound, which, as the so much dreaded warwhoop, brought a death 
feeling to the heart of the early pioneer, and made the mother 
clasp closely, in the deep hours of the night, the young and un- 
conscious infant to her bosom. But it had no such influence upon 
the fearless spirit of Nagoochie. The Estato heard him with 
cool composure, but. though evidently unafraid, it was yet equally 
evident that he was unwilling to meet the challenger in strife. 
Nor was his decision called for on the subject. The great chief 
interposed, and all chance of conflict was prevented by his inter- 
vention. In that presence they were compelled to keep the 
peace, though both the Occonies and Little Estatoees retired to 
their several lodges with fever in their veins, and a restless desire 
for that collision which Moitoy had denied them. All but Na- 
goochie were vexed at this denial ; and all of them wondered 
much that a warrior, so brave and daring as he had always 
shown himself, should be so backward on such an occasion. It 
was true, they knew of his love for the girl of Occony ; but they 
never dreamed of such a feeling acquiring an influence over the 
hunter, of so paralyzing and unmanly a character. Even Na- 
goochie himself, as he listened to some of the speeches uttered 

16 


226 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


around him, and reflected upcn the insolence of Cheochee — ever 
he began to wish that the affair might happen again, that he might 
take the hissing viper by the neck. And poor Jocassee — what of 
her when they took her back to the lodges ? She did nothing but 
dream all night of Brown Vipers and Green Birds in the hick of 
battle. 


TOC ASS EE. 


227 


CHAPTER V. ' 

“ The next day came the movement of the hunters, still under 
the conduct of Moitoy, from the one to the other side of the upper 
branch of the Keowee river, now called the Jocassee, but which, 
at that time, went by the name of Sarratay. The various bands 
prepared to move with the daylight ; and, still near, and still in 
sight of one another, the Occonies and Estatoees took up their 
line of march with the rest. The long poles of the two, beaming 
the green bird of the one, and the brown viper of the other, in 
the hands of their respective bearers — stout warriors chosen for 
this purpose with reference to strength and valour — waved in 
parallel courses, though the space between them was , made as 
great as possible by the common policy of both parties. Follow, 
ing the route of the caravan, which had been formed of the an- 
cient men, the women and children, to whom had been entrusted 
the skins taken in the hunt, the provisions, utensils for cooking, 
&c., the great body of hunters were soon in motion for other and 
better hunting-grounds, several miles distant, beyond the river. 

“ The Indian warriors have their own mode of doing business, 
and do not often travel with the stiff precision which marks Eu- 
ropean civilization. Though having all one point of destination, 
each hunter took his own route to gain it, and in this manner as- 
serted his independence. This had been the education of the In- 
dian boy, and this self-reliance is one source of that spirit and 
character which will not suffer him to feel surprise in any situa- 
tion. Their way, generally, wound along a pleasant valley, un- 
broken for several miles, until you came to* Big-knob, a huge 
crag which completely divides it, rising formidably up in the 
midst, and narrowing the valley on either hand to a fissure, ne- 
cessarily compelling a closer march for all parties than had here 
tofore been pursued. Straggling about as they had been, 
course but little order was perceptible when they came together, 
in little groups, where the mountain forced their junction. One 


228 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


of the Bear tribe found himself alongside a handful of the Fox- 
es, and a chief of the Alligators plunged promiscuously int 
*the centre of a cluster of the Turkey tribe, whose own chief was 
probably doing the proper courtesies among the Alligators. These 
little crossings, however, were amusing rather than annoying, and 
were, generally, productive of little inconvenience and no strife. 
But it so happened that there was one exception to the accus- 
tomed harmony. The Occonies and Estatoees, like the rest, had 
broken up in small parties, and, as might have been foreseen, 
when they came individually to where the crag divided the valley 
into two, some took the one and some the other hand, and it was 
not until one of the paths they had taken opened into a little plain 
in which the woods were bald — a sort of prairie — that a party of 
seven Occonies discovered that they had among them two of their 
detested rivals, the Little Estatoees. What made the matter 
worse, one of these stragglers was the ill-fated warrior who had 
been chosen to carry the badge of his tribe ; and there, high 
above their heads — the heads of the Brown Vipers — floated that 
detestable symbol, the green bird itself. 

“ There was no standing that. The Brown Vipers, as if with 
a common instinct, were immediately up in arms. They grap- 
pled the offending stragglers without gloves. They tore the green 
bird from the pole, stamped it under foot, smothered it in the mud, 
and pulling out the cone-tuft of its head, utterly degraded it in 
. their own as well as in the estimation of the Estatoees. Not con- 
tent with this, they hung the desecrated emblem about the neck 
of the bearer of it, and, spite of all their struggles, binding the 
arms of the two stragglers behind their backs, the relentless Vi- 
pers thrust the long pole which had borne the bird, in such a 
manner between their alternate arms as effectually to fasten them 
together. In this manner, amidst taunts, blows and revilings, 
they were left in the valley to get on as they might, while their 
enemies, insolent enough with exultation, proceeded to join the 
rest of their party. 


JOCASSE*. 


m 


CHAPTER VI. 

14 An hundred canoes were ready on the banks of the fivei 
Sarratay, for the conveyance to the opposite shore of the assem. 
bled Cherokees. And down they came, warrior after warrior, 
tribe after tribe, emblem after emblem, descending from the crags 
around, in various order, and hurrying all with shouts, and whoops 
and songs, grotesquely leaping to the river’s bank, like so many 
boys just let out of school. Hilarity is, indeed, the life of nature ! 
Civilization refines the one at the expense of the other, and then 
it is that no human luxury or sport, as known in society, stimu- 
lates appetite for any length of time. We can only laugh in the 
woods — society suffers but a smile, and desperate sanctity, with 
the countenance of a crow, frowns even at that. 

“But, down, around, and gathering from every side, they came 
— -the tens and the twenties of the several tribes of Cherokee. 
Grouped along the banks of the river, were the boats assigned to 
each. Some, already filled, were sporting in every direction over 
the clear bosom of that beautiful water. Moitoy himself, at the 
head of the tribe of Nequassee, from w-hich he came, had already 
embarked ; while the venerable Attakulla, with Jocassee, the gen- 
tle, sat upon a little bank in the neighbourhood of the Occony 
boats, awaiting the arrival of Cheochee and his party. And why 
came they not 1 One after another of the several tribes had filled 
their boats, and were either on the river or across it. But two 
clusters of canoes yet remained, and they were those of the rival 
tribes — a green bird flaunted over the one, and a brown viper, in 
many folds, was twined about the pole of the other. 

“ There was sufficient reason why they came not. The strife 
had begun ; — for, when, gathering his thirteen warriors io a little 
hollow at the termination of the valley through which they came, 
Nagoochie beheld the slow and’ painful approach of the two strag- 
glers upon whom the Occonies had so practised — when he saw 
the green bird, the beautiful emblem of his tribe, disfigured and 


230 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


defiled — there was no longer any measure or method in his mad- 
ness. There was no longer a thought of Jocassee to keep him 
back ; and the feeling of ferocious indignation which filled his 
bosom was the common feeling with his brother warriors. They 
lay in wait for the coming of the Occonies, down at the foot of 
the Yellow Hill, where the woods gathered green and thick. 
They were few — but half in number of their enemies — but they 
were strong in ardour, strong in justice, and even death was pref- 
erable to a longer endurance of that dishonour to which they had 
already been too long subjected. They beheld the approach of 
the Brown Vipers, as, one by one, they wound^out from the gap 
of the mountain, with a fierce satisfaction. The two parties were 
now in sight of each other, and could not mistake the terms of 
their encounter. No word was spoken between them, but each 
began the scalp-song of his tribe, preparing at the same time his 
weapon, and advancing to the struggle. 

“ ‘ The green bird has a bill,’ sang the Estatoees ; ‘ and he 
flies like an arrow to his prey.’ 

“ ‘ The brown viper has poison and a fang,’ responded the Oc- 
conies ; 1 and he lies under the bush for his enemy.’ 

“ ‘ Give me to clutch the war-tuft,’ cried the leaders of each 
party, almost in the same breath. 

“ ‘ To taste the blood,’ cried another. 

“ * And make my knife laugh in the heart that shrinks,’ sung 
another and another. 

“ ‘ I will put my foot on the heart,’ cried an Occony. 

“ ‘ 1 tear away the scalp,’ shouted an Estato, in reply ; while 
a joint chorus from the two parties, promised — 

“ ‘ A dog that runs, to the black spirit that keeps in tne dark.’ 

“ ‘ Echa-herro, echa-herro, echa-herro ,’ was the grand cry, or 
fearful warwhoop, which announced the moment of onset and the 
beginning of the strife. 

“ The Occonies were not backward, though the affair was 
commenced by the Estatoees. Cheochee, their leader, was quite 
as brave as malignant, and now exulted in the near prospect of 
that sweet revenge, for all the supposed wrongs and more certain 
rivalries which his tribe had suffered from the Green Birds. Nor 
was this more the feeling with him than with \ is tribe. Disposing 


JOCASSEE. 


231 


.hemselves, the refore, in readiness to receive the assault, hey re- 
joiced in the coming of a strife, in which, having many injuries 
to redress, they had the advantages, at the same time, of position 
and numbers. 

“ But their fighting at disadvantage was not now a thought with 
the Little Estatoees. Their blood was up, and like all usually 
patient people, once aroused, they were not so readily quieted. 
Nagoochie, the warrior now, and no longer the lover, led on the 
attack. You should have seen how that brave young chief went 
into battle — how he leapt up in air, slapped his hands upon his 
thighs in token of contempt for his foe, and throwing himself open 
before his enemies, dashed down his bow and arrows, and waving 
his hatchet, signified to them his desire for the conflict, a Voutrance , 
and, which would certainly make it so, hand to hand. The Occo. 
nies took him at his word, and throwing aside the long bow, they 
bounded out from their cover to meet their adversaries. Then 
should you have seen that meeting — that first rush — how they 
threw the tomahawk — how they flourished the knife — how the 
brave man rushed to the fierce embrace of his strong enemy — and 
how the two rolled along the hill in the teeth-binding struggle of 
death. 

“ The tomahawk of Nagoochie had wings and a tooth. It flew 
and bit in every direction. One after another, the Occonies went 
down before it, and still his fierce war cry of ‘ Eclia-mal-Occony ,’ 
preceding every stroke, announced another and another victim. 
They sank away from him like sheep before the wolf that is 
hungry, and the disparity of force was not so great in favour of 
the Occonies, when we recollect that Nagoochie was against them. 
The parties, under his fierce valour, were soon almost equal in 
number, and something more was necessary to be done by the 
Occonies before they could hope for that favourable result from 
the struggle which they had before looked upon as certain. It 
was for Cheochee now to seek out and to encounter the gallant 
young chief of Estato. Nagoochie, hitherto, for reasons best 
known to himself, had studiously avoided the leader of the Vi- 
pers; but he could no longer do so. He was contending, in 
close strife, with Okonettee, or the One-Eyed — a stout wariior of 
the Vipers — as Cheochee approached him. In the next moment, 


232 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 

the hatchet of Nagoochie entjjff the skull of Okonettee. The 
One-Eyed sunk to the ground, as if in supplication, and, seizing 
the legs of his conqueror, in spite of the repeated tdows which 
descended from the deadly instrument, each of which was a death, 
while his head swam, and the blood filled his eyes, and his senses 
were fast fleeting, he held on with a death-grasp which nothing 
could compel him to forego. In this predicament, Cheochee con- 
fronted the young brave of Estato. The strife was short, for 
though Nagoochie fought as bravely as ever, yet he struck in 
vain, while the dying wretch, grappling his legs, disordered, 
by his convulsions, not less than by his efforts, every blow which 
the strong hand of Nagoochie sought to give. One arm was al- 
ready disabled, and still the dying wretch held on to his legs. In 
another moment, the One-Eyed was seized by the last spasms of 
death, and in his struggles, he dragged the Estato chief to his 
knees. This was the fatal disadvantage. Before any of the 
Green Bird warriors could come to his succour, the blow was 
given, and Nagoochie lay under the knee of the Brown Viper. 
The knife was in his heart, and the life not yet gone, when the 
same instrument encircled his head, and his swimming vision 
could behold his own scalp waving in the grasp of his conqueror. 
The gallant spirit of Nagoochie passed away in a vain effort to 
utter his song of death — the song of a brave warrior conscious of 
many victories. 


“ Jocass6e looked up to the hills when she heard the fierce cry 
of the descending Vipers. Their joy was madness, for they had 
fought with — they had slain, the bravest of their enemies. The 
intoxication of tone which Cheochee exhibited, when he told the 
story of the strife, and announced his victory, went like a death- 
stroke to the heart of the maiden. But she said not a word — she 
uttered no complaint — she shed no tear. Gliding quietly into 
the boat in which they were about to cross the river, she sat silent, 
gazing, with the fixedness of a marble statue, upon the still drip, 
ping scalp of her lover, as it dangled about the neck of his con- 
queror. On a sudden, just as they had reached the middle of the 
stream, she started, and her gaze was turned once more backward 


JOCASSEE 


233 


ipon the banks they had left, as if, on a sudden, some object of 
interest had met her sight, — then, whether by accident or design, 
with look still intent in the same direction, she fell over the side, 
before they could save or prevent her, and was buried in the deep 
waters of Sarratay for ever. She rose not once to the surface. 
The stream, from that moment, lost the name of Sarratay, and 
both whites and Indians, to this day, know it only as the river of 
Jocassee. The girls of Cherokee, however, contend that she did 
not sink, but walking ‘ the waters like a thing of life,’ that she 
rejoined Nagoochie, whom she saw beckoning to her from the 
shore. Nor is this the only tradition. The story goes on to 
describe a beautiful lodge, one of the most select in the valleys of 
Manneyto, the hunter of which is Nagoochie of the Green Bird, 
while the maiden who dresses his venison is certainly known as 
Jocassee.” 



THE GIANT’S COFFIN, 

OR THE FEUD OF HOLT AND HOUSTON. 

A TALE OF REEDY RIVER. 


CHAPTER I. 

In 1766, the beautiful district of Greenville, in South Carolina; 
— which is said to have had its name in consequence of the ver- 
dant aspect which it bore in European eyes, — received its first 
white settlers from Virginia and Pennsylvania. Among these 
early colonists were the families of Holt and Houston, — repre- 
sented by two fearless borderers, famous in their day as Indian 
hunters; — men ready with the tomahawk and rifle, but not less 
distinguished, perhaps, for the great attachment which existed be- 
tween them. Long intercourse in trying periods — the habit of 
referring to each other in moments of peril — constant adventures 
in company — not to speak of similar tastes and sympathies in nu- 
merous other respects, had created between them a degree of af- 
fection, which it would be difficult, perhaps, to find among persons 
of more mild and gentle habits. Each had his family — his wife 
and little ones — and, traversing the mountain paths which lie be- 
tween Virginia and the Carolinas, they came in safety to the 
more southern of the last-named colonies. Charmed with ffie ap- 
pearance of the country, they squatted down upon the borders of 
Reedy River, not very far from the spot now occupied by the 
pleasant town of Greenville. Family division, for the present, 
there was none. Congeniality of tastes, the isolation of their 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


236 

abodes, the necessity of concentration against the neighbouring 
Indian nation of Cherokees, kept them together; and, continuing 
the life of the hunter, rather than that of the farmer, John Holt 
and Arthur Houston pursued the track of bear, deer, and turkey, 
as before, with a keenness of zest which, possibly, derived its im- 
pulse quite as much from attachment to one another, as from any 
great fondness for the pursuit itself. 

Meanwhile, their families, taking fast hold upon the soil, began 
to flourish together after a fashion of their own. Flourish they 
did, for the boys thrived, and the girls grew apace. But tradition 
has preserved some qualifying circumstances in this history, by 
which it would seem that their prosperity was not entirely without 
alloy. The sympathies between Mesdames Holt and Houston 
were not, it appears, quite so warm and active as those which 
distinguished the intercourse of their respective husbands. Civil 
enough to one another in the presence of the latter, they were not 
infrequently at “ dagger-draw ” in their absence. The husbands 
were not altogether ignorant of this condition of things at home, 
but they had their remedy ; and there is little doubt that, like 
some other famous sportsmen of my acquaintance, they became 
happy hunters only when there was no. longer any hope that they 
could become happy husbands. Now, as quarrels most common- 
ly owe their spirit and excellence to the presence of spectators, 
we may assume that some portion of the virulence of our two 
wives underwent diminution from the absence of those before 
whom it might hope to display itself with appropriate eloquence ; 
and the wrath of the dames, only exhibited before their respective 
children, was very apt to exhale in clouds, and slight flashes, and 
an under-current of distant thunder. Unhappily, however, the 
evil had consequences of which the weak mothers little thought, 
and the feud was entailed to the children, who, instead of assimi- 
lating, with childish propensities, in childish sports, took up the 
cudgels of their parents, and under fewer of the restraints,— 
arising from prudence, and the recognition of mutual necessities, 
— by which the dames were kept from extreme issues, they play- 
ed the aforesaid cudgels about their mutual heads, with a degree 
of earnestness that very frequently rendered necessary the inter- 
position of their superiors. 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


237 


The miserable evil of this family feud fell most' heavily upon 
the natures of the two eldest boys, one a Holt, the other a Hous- 
ton, — spoiling their childish tempters, impressing their souls with 
fearful passions, and embittering their whole intercourse. 

At this period young Houston has reached the age of fom teen 
and Holt of twelve years of age. The former was a tall, slen 
der, and very handsome youth ; the latter was short, thickset, 
and of rather plain, unpromising appearance. But he was mod- 
est, gentle, and subdued in temper, and rather retiring and shy. 
The former, on the contrary, was bold, vain, and violent — thp 
petted boy of his mother, insolent in his demands, and reckless in his 
resentments — a fellow of unbending will, and of unmeasured im- 
pulses. He had already gone forth as a hunter with his father; 
he had proved his strength and courage ; and he longed for an 
opportunity to exercise his youthful muscle upon his young com- 
panion, with whom, hitherto, — he himself could not say how or 
why — his collisions had fallen short of the extremities of personal 
violence. For such an encounter the soul of young Houston 
yearned; he knew that Holt was not wanting in strength — he 
had felt that in their plays together ; but he did not doubt that his 
own strength, regularly put forth, was greatly superior. 

One day the boys had gone down together to the banks of 
Reedy River to bathe. There they met a deformed boy of the 
neighbourhood, whose name was Acker. In addition to his de- 
formity, the boy was an epileptic, and such was his nervous 
sensibility, that, merely to point a finger at him in mischief, was 
apt to produce in him the most painful sensations. Sometimes, 
indeed, the pranks of his playmates, carried too far, had thrown 
him into convulsions. This unhappy lad had but just recovered 
from a sickness produced by some such practices, and this fact 
was well known to the boys. Disregarding it, however, John 
Houston proceeded to amuse himself with the poor boy. Holt, 
however, interposed, and remonstrated with his companion, bdt 
without effect. Houston persisted, until, fairly tired of the sport, 
he left the diseased boy in a dreadful condition of mental excite- 
ment and bodily exhaustion. This done, he proceeded to bathe. 

Meanwhile, with that sort of cunning and vindictiveness which 
often distinguishes the impaired intellect of persons subject to 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


238 

such infirmities, the epileptic boy watched his opportunity, and 
stole down, unobserved, to the river’s edge, among the rocks, 
where the boys had placed their clothes. There he remained in 
waiting, and when John Houston appeared to dress himself, and 
was stooping down for his garments, the epileptic threw himself 
violently upon him, bore him to the ground, and, grasping a 
heavy rock, would have beaten out the brains of the offending 
lad, but for the timely assistance of Arthur Holt, who drew off 
the assailan 4 , deprived him of his weapon, and gave his comrade 
a chance to recover, and place himself in a situation to defend 
himself. 

But Acker, the epileptic boy, was no longer in a condition to 
justify the hostility of any enemy. His fit of frenzy had been 
succeeded by one of weeping, and, prostrate upon the ground, 
he lay convulsed under most violent nervous agitation. While 
he remained in this state, John Houston, who had now partially 
dressed himself, furious with rage at the indignity he had suffer- 
ed, and the danger he had escaped, prepared to revenge himself 
upon him for this last offence ; and, but for Arthur Holt, would, 
no doubt, have subjected the miserable victim to a severe beating. 
But the manly nature of Arthur resented and resisted this brutal- 
ity. He stood between the victim and his persecutor. 

“ You shall not beat him,. John — it was your own fault. You 
begun it.” 

“ I will beat you then,” was the reply. 

“ No ! you shall not beat me, either.” 

“ Ha ! Take that !” 

The blow followed on the instant. A first blow, and in the 
eye, too, is very apt to conclude an ordinary battle. But tin's 
was to be no ordinary battle. Our young hero was stunned by 
the blow; — the fire flashed from the injured eye; — hut the un- 
fairness of the proceeding awakened a courage which had its best 
sources in the moral nature of the boy ; and, though thus taken 
at advantage, he closed in with his assailant, and, in this manner, 
lessened the odds at which he otherwise must have fought with 
one so much taller and longer in the arms than himself. In the 
fling that followed, John Houston was on his back. His conquer, 
or suffered him to rise. 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN 


239 


“ Let us fight no more, John,” he said, on relaxing his hold ; 
“ I don’t want to fight with you.” 

The arfswer, on the part of the other, was a renewal of the as 
sault. Again was he thrown, and this time with a considerable 
increase of severity. He rose with pain. He felt his hurts. 
The place of battle was stony ground. Fragments of rock 
were at hand. Indignant and mortified at the result of the sec- 
ond struggle — aiming only at vengeance — the furious boy snatch- 
ed up one of these fragments, and once more rushed upon his 
companion. But this time he was restrained by a third party — 
no less than his own father — who, unobserved, had emerged from 
the neighbouring thicket, and, unseen by the combatants, had wit- 
nessed the whole proceeding. The honourable nature of the old 
hunter recoiled at the conduct of his son. He suddenly took the 
lad by the collar, wrested the stone from him, and laying a heavy 
hickory rod some- half dozen times over his shoulders, with no 
moderate emphasis, sent him home, burning with shame, and 
breathing nothing but revenge. 


240 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


* 


CHAPTER II. 

In the space of five years after this event, the two fathers 
yielded their scalps to the Cherokees, and upon the yoiyig men, 
now stretching to manhood, devolved the task of providing for 
their families. The patriarchal sway was at an end, and, with 
it. all those restraining influences by which the external show of 
peace had been kept up. It was to be a household in common no 
onger. But a short time had elapsed, when a domestic storm of 
peculiar violence determined the dames to separate for ever ; and, 
vhile the family of Holt, under the management of young Ar- 
thur, remained at the old settlement near Reedy River, the Hous- 
tons proceeded to Paris Mountain, some seven miles off, — in' the 
neighbourhood of which may be found, at this day, some traces 
of their rude retreat. The settlement at Reedy River, mean- 
while, had undergone increase. New families had arrived, and 
the first foundations were probably then laid of the flourishing 
village which now borders the same lovely stream. The sons 
grew up, but not after the fashion of their fathers. In one re- 
spect only did John Houston resemble his parent — he was a hunter. 
Arthur Holt, on the other hand, settled down into a methodical, 
hard-working farmer, who, clinging to his family fireside, made it 
cheerful, and diffused the happiest influences around it. He 
grew up strong rather than handsome, good rather than conspic- 
uous ; and, under his persevering industry and steady habits, his 
mother’s family, now his own, reached a condition of comfort be 
fore unknown. The family of young Houston, by which w« 
mean his mother, sister, and a younger brother, did not flourish 
in like degree. Yet Houston had already acquired great reputa- 
tion as a hunter. In the woods he seemed literally to follow in 
his father’s footsteps. He had his accomplishments also. He 
was certainly the handsomest youth in all the settlements ; of a 
bold carriage, lofty port, free, open, expressive countenance, tall 
of person and graceful of movement. 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN 


24 . 


It was some qualification of these advantages that the morale 
of John Houston was already something more than questionable 
in the public opinion of the settlement. His tastes were vicious, 
—his indulgences in strong drink had more than once subjected 
him to humiliating exposures, but as yet they had produced cau- 
tion rather than dislike among his associates. Among the wo- 
men, however, they were not suspected to exist, or, if known or 
suspected, weighed very little against the graces of a fine person, 
a dashing, easy carriage, and a free *•' gift of the gab,” which 
*eft him quite as unrivalled among the debaters as he was among 
the dancers. 

Among the families settled down upon Reedy River, was that 
of Marcus Heywood, a Virginia cavalier, a fine hearty gentle- 
man of the old school, polished and precise, who had seen better 
aays, and was disposed very much to insist upon them. He 
brought with him into the little colony a degree of taste and 
refinement, of which, before his coming, the happy little neigh- 
bourhood knew nothing ; but, unhappily for all parties, he -sur- 
vived too short a time after his arrival, to affect very favourably, 
or very materially, the sentiments and manners of those about 
him. He left his widow, a lady of fifty, and an only daughter 
of sixteen, to lament his loss. Mrs. Heywood was a good wo- 
man, an excellent housewife, a kind matron, and all that is exem- 
plary at her time of life ; but Leda Heywood, her daughter, was 
a paragon; — in such high terms is she described by still-worship- 
ing tradition, and the story that comes down to us, seems, in some 
respects, to justify the warmth of its eulogium. At the period of 
her father’s death, Leda was only sixteen; but she was tall, well- 
grown, and thoughtful beyond her years. The trying times in 
which she lived — frequent travel — the necessity of vigilance — 
the duties which naturally fall upon the young in new countries 
— conspired to bring out her character, and to hurry to maturity 
an intellect originally prompt and precocious. Necessity had 
forced thought into exercise, and she had become acute, ob- 
servant, subdued in bearing, modest in reply, gentle, full of wo- 
manly solicitude, yet so calpi in her deportment that, to the su- 
perficial observer, she wore an aspect, — quite false to the fact— 
of great coldness and insensibility. Her tastes were excellent ; 

17 


>42 THE WIGWAM AND THE ( '-A BIN 

she sang very sweetly — and whe.i you add to the account ui her 
merits, that she was really very bvely, a fair, blue-eyed, graceful 
creature, — you need not wonder that one day she became a hero- 
ine ! A heroine ! poor Leda ! Bitterly, indeed, must she have I 
wept, in after times, the evil fortune that doomed her to be a 
heroine ! 

But Leda was a belle before she became a heroine. This was, 
perhaps, the more unfortunate destiny of the two. She was the 
belle of Reedy River, called by hunter, and shepherd, and far- 
mer, “ the blue-eyed girl of Reedy River,” to whom all paid an 
involuntary tribute, to whom all came as suitors, and, with the 
rest, who but our two acquaintances, John Houston and Arthur 
Holt. At first they themselves knew not that they were rivals, 
but the secret was one of that sort which very soon contrived to 
reveal itself. It was then that the ancient hate of John Houston 
revived, in all its fury. If Arthur Holt was not conscious of the 
same feelings exactly, he was yet conscious of an increased dis- 
like of his old companion. With that forbearance which, whether 
the fruit of prudence or timidity, Arthur Holt had always been 
careful to maintain in his intercouse with his former associate, 
he now studiously kept aloof from him as much as possible. No, 
that this reserve and caution manifested itself in any unmanly 
weakness. On the contrary, no one could have appeared more 
composed, when they met, than Arthur Holt. It is true that, in 
the actual presence of Leda Heywood, he was rather more em- 
barrassed than his rival. The reader will not need to be re- ' 
minded that we have already described him as being naturally 
shy. This bashfulness showed badly in contrast with the deport- 
ment of John Houston. If the difference between the manner of 
the two young men, in approaching their mistress, was percepti- 
ble to herself and others, it was little likely to escape the eyes of 
one who, like John Houston, was rendered equally watchful both 
by hate and jealousy. But, unconscious of any bashfulness 
himself, he could not conceive the influence of this weakness in 
another. He committed the grievous error of ascril ing the dis- 
quiet and nervous timidity of Arthur Holt to a very different 
origin ; and fondly fancied that it arose from a secret dread which 
the young man felt of his rival. We shall not say what degree 


THE GIANT'S COFFIN 


243 


of influence this notion might have had, in determining his own 
future conduct towards his rival. 

Some months had passed away, since the death of Colonel 
Heywood, in this manner, and the crowd of suitors had gradually 
given way to the two to whom our own attention has been more, 
particularly turned. Events, meanwhile, had been verging to- 
wards, a very natural crisis; and the whisper, on all hands, de- 
termined that Leda Heywood was certainly engaged, and to John 
Houston. This whisper, as a matter of course, soon reached the 
ears of the man whom it was most likely to annoy. 

Arthur Holt could not be said to hope, for, in truth, Leda 
Heywood had given him but little encouragement ; still he was not 
willing to yield in despair, for, so far as he himself had observed, 
she had never given any encouragement to his rival. At all 
events, there was a way of settling the matter, which the ‘stout- 
hearted fellow determined to take at the earliest moment. He 
resolved to propose to Leda, a measure which he would sooner 
nave adopted, but for a delicate scruple arising from the fact that 
ne had made himself particularly useful to her mother, who, in 
her widowhood, and in straitened circumstances, was very glad 
to receive the help and friendly offices of the young farmer. 
These scruples yielded, however, to the strength of his feelings ; 
and one evening he had already half finished his toilet with more 
than usual care, in order to the business of a formal declaration, 
when, to his own surprise and that of his family, John Houston 
abruptly entered the humble homestead. It was the first visit 
which he had paid since the separation of the two families, and 
Arthur saw at a glance that it had its particular object. After a 
few moments, in which the usual civilities wer^ exchanged, 
John Houston, rising as he spoke, said abruptly to Arthur — 

“ You seem about to go out, and perhaps we may be walking 
in the same direction. If so, I can say what I have to say, while 
we’re on the road together.” 

“ I am about to go to see the Widow Heywood.” 

“ Very good ! our road lies the same way.” 

The tones .of Houston were more than usually abrupt as he 
spoke, and there was a stern contracting of the brow, and si 
fierce flashing of the eye, while he looked upcn the person he 


24-4 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


addressed, which did not escape the observation of Arthur, and 
excited the apprehensions of his mother. On some pretence, she 
drew her son into her chamber ere he went forth, and in few, but 
earnest words, insisted that John Houston meant harm. 

“ If you will go with him, Arthur, take this pistol of your 
father’s in your bosom, and keep a sharp look-out upon him. 
Man never meant evil if John Houston does not mean it now.” 

We pass over her farther remonstrances. They made little 
impression upon Arthur, but, to quiet her, he put the weapon into 
his bosom — half ashamed — as he did so — of a concession that 
seemed to look like cowardice. 

The two young men set out together, and the eyes of the anx- 
ious-mother followed them as long as they were in sight. They 
took the common path, which led them down to the river, just 
below the falls. When they had reached the opposite shore, and 
before they had ascended the rocks by which it is lined, John 
Houston, who had led, turned suddenly upon his companion, and 
thus addressed him : 

“ Arthur Holt, you may wonder at my coming to see you to- 
day, for I very well know that there is no love lost between us. 
You like me as little as I like you. Nay, for that matter, I don’t 
care how soon you hear it from my lips, — I hate you, and I shall 
always hate you ! We were enemies while we were boys, — we 
are enemies now that we are men ; and I suppose we shall be 
enemies as long as we live. Whether we are to fight upon it, is 
for you to say.” 

Here he paused and looked eagerly into the eyes of his com- 
panion. The latter regarded him steadily, but returned no an- 
swer. He evidently seemed to await some farther explanation 
of the purpose of one who had opened his business with an 
avowal so startling and ungracious. After a brief pause, Houston 
proceeded : 

“ The talk is that you’re a-courting Leda Heywood — that you 
mean to offer yourself to her — and when I see how finely you’ve 
rigged yourself out for it to-night, I’m half inclined to believe 
you’re foolish enough to be thinking of it. Arthur Holt, this 
must not be ! You must have nothing to do with Leda Heywood.” 

He paused again — his eyes keenly searching those of his rival* 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


24c 


The latter still met his glance with a quiet sort of oetermination, 
which betrayed nothing of the effect which the words of the othei 
might have produced upon his mind. Houston was annoyed. 
Impatiently, again, he spoke, as follows: 

“ You hear me, — you hear what I say V 9 

“ Yes, I hear you, John Houston.” 

“ Well ! — ” 

“ Well ! — you want my answer, I suppose? You shall have 
it ! This it is. If you are a madman or a fool, that is no reason 
why I should not do as I please !” 

x The other was about to interrupt him, — but Holt persisted : 

“ Let me finish, John Houston. I heard you patiently — now, 
hear me ! I am no fighting man, and as heaven is above us, I 
have no wish to quarrel ; but I am ready to fight whenever I 
can’t do better. As for being bullied by you, that is out of the 
question. I am not afraid of you, and never was, as you should 
have known before this, and as you may know whenever the 
notion suits you to try. I am now, this very moment, going to 
see Leda Heywood, and I mean to ask her hand.” 

“ That you shall never do !” exclaimed the other, whose pas- 
sions had been with difficulty kept down so long — “ That, by the 
Eternal ! you shall never do !” — and as he spoke, drawing a 
knife from his belt, he rushed upon Arthur Holt, with a prompt- 
ness and fury that left the latter in no doubt of the bloody and 
desperate purposes of his foe. But the coolness of the young 
farmer was his safeguard in part, and to the weapon, go thought- 
fully furnished him by his mother, he was indebted for the rest. 
He had kept a wary watch upon the movements of Houston’s 
eye, and read in its glance the bloody purpose of his soul, the 
moment ere he struck. Retreating on one side, he was ready, 
when the latter turned a second time upon him, with his present- 
ed pistol. 

“ It is well for both of us, perhaps,” said he, quietly, as he 
cocked and held up the weapon to the face of the approaching 
Houston, “ that this pistol was put into my hands by one who 
knew you better than I did ; or you might this moment have my 
blood upon your soul. Let us now part, John Houston. If you 
are bent to go from this to Widow Hey wood’s, — the path is or eo 


246 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


to you, — go ! I will return home, an J seek some other time, 
when there’s no chance of our meeting ; for I neither wish to kill 
you nor to be killed by you. Which will you do — go forward or 
return ? Take your choice — I yield the path to you.” 

The fury of the baffled assassin may be imagined. It is not 
easy to describe it. But he was in no condition of mind to visit 
Lsda Heywood, and, after exhausting himself in ineffectual 
threatenings, he dashed once more across the foaming torrents of 
Reedy River, leaving Arthur Holt free to pursue his way to the 
cottage of his mistress. This he did, with a composure which 
the whole exciting scene, through which he had passed, had en- 
tirely failed to disturb. Indeed, the events of this interview 
appeared to have the effect, only, of strengthening the resolve of 
the young farmer, for, to confess a truth, the good fellow was 
somewhat encouraged — by certain expressions which had dropped 
from Houston, in his fury, — tp hope for a favourable answer to 
his suit. We may as well say, in this place, that the frenzy of 
the latter had been provoked by similar stories reaching his ears 
to those which had troubled Arthur. 

When they separated, and Arthur Holt went forward to the 
cottage of Widow Heywood, it was with a new and most delight* 
ful hope awakened in is bosom. 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


247 


CHAPTER III. 

But he was doomed to disappointment. He was rejected, — 
tenderly, but firmly: Leda Heywood was not for him ; and 
resigning himself to the . denial, with the instincts of a man by 
nature strong, and inured by trial to disappointments, Arthur 
Holt retired from the field of Love, to cultivate more certain 
fruits in those of Ceres and Pomona. Had the mind of the young 
fanner been morbidly affected, his mortification would have been 
heightened by subsequent events. Three days afterwards, Leda 
Heywood accepted the hand of his enemy, John Houston ! Phi- 
losophers will continue to seek in vain for the cause of that 
strange perversity, by which the tastes, even of the finest women, 
are sometimes found to be governed. There is a mystery here 
beyond all solution. The tastes and sympathies of Leda Heywood 
and John Houston did not run together ; — there was, in reality, 
no common ground, whether of the affections or of the sentiments, 
upon which they could meet. But he sought, and wooed, and 
won her ; — they were married ; and, to all but Arthur Holt, the 
wonder was at an end after the customary limits of the ninth day. 
The wonder, in this case, will be lessened to the reader if two or 
three things were remembered. Leda Heywood was very young, 
and John Houston very handsome. Of the wild passions of the 
latter she knew little or nothing. She found him popular — the 
favourite of the damsels around her, and this fact, alone, will ac- 
count for the rest. But we must not digress in speculations of 
this nature. The parties were ma'rried, and the honeymoon, in all 
countries and climates, is proverbially rose-coloured. The only 
awkward thing is, that, in all countries, it is but a monthly moon. 

The wedding took place. The honeymoon rose, but set some- 
what earlier than usual. With the attainment of his object, the 
passion of John Houston very soon subsided, and we shall make 
a long story conveniently short by saying, in this place, that it 
wa§ not manv weeks before Leda Heywood (or as we must now 


248 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


call her,) Leda Houston, began to weep over the ill-judged prt 
cipitation with which she had joined herself to a man whose vie 
lent temper made no allowances for the feelings, the sensibilities, 
and tastes of others. No longer restrained by the dread of losing 
his object, his brutalities shocked her delicacy, while his fierce 
passions awoke her fears. She soon found herself neglected and 
abused, and learned to loathe the connection she had formed, and 
weep bitter tears in secret. To all this evil may be added the 
pressure of poverty, which now began to be more seriously felt 
than ever. The hunter life, always uncertain, was still more so, 
in the case of one like John Houston, continually led into indul- 
gences which unfitted him, sometimes for days together, to go 
into the woods. Carousing at the tavern with some congenial 
natures, he suffered himself to be little disturbed by home cares ; 
and the privations to which his wife had been subjected even, be- 
fore her marriage, were now considerably increased. It will be 
remembered that the Widow Hey wood was indebted (perhaps 
even more than she then knew) to the generous care of Arthur 
Holt. Her resources from this quarter were necessarily with- 
drawn on the marriage of her daughter with Houston, not so 
much through any diminution of the young farmer’s sympathy 
for the objects of his bounty, as from a desire to withdraw from 
any connexion or communion, direct or indirect, with the family 
of his bitterest foe. Knowing the fierce, unreasoning nature of 
Houston, he was unwilling to expose to his violence the innocent 
victims of his ill habits — a consequence which he very well knew 
would follow the discovery of any services secretly rendered 
them by Holt. But these scruples were soon compelled to give 
way to a sense of superior duty. It soon came to his knowledge 
that the unhappy women — mother and daughter — were fre- 
quently without food. John Houston, abandoned to vicious habits 
and associates, had almost entirely left his family to provide for 
themselves. He was sometimes absent for weeks — would return 
home, as it appeared, for no purpose but to vent upon his wife and 
mother-in-law the caprices of his ill-ordered moods, and then de- 
part, leaving them hopeless of his aid. In this condition, the 
young farmer came again to their rescue. The larder was pro- 
vided regularly and bountifully. But Leda knew not at first 





THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


249 


whence this kindly succor came. She might have suspected — nay, 
did suspect — but Arthur Holt proceeded so cautiously, that his 
supplies came to the house With the privity of Widow Hey wood 
only. 

To add to Leda’s sorrows, two events now occurred within a 
few months of each other, and both in less than sixteen months 
after her marriage, which were calculated to increase her bur- 
then, and to lessen, in some respect, her sources of consolation : 
the birth of a son and the death of her mother. These events 
drew to her the assistance of neighbours, but the most substan- 
tial help came from Arthur Holt. It was now scarcely possible 
to conceal from Leda, as he had hitherto done, his own direct 
agency in the support of her family. She was compelled to 
know it, and — which was still more mortifying to her spirit — 
conscious as she was of the past — she was compelled to receive 
it. Her husband’s course was not materially improved by events 
which had so greatly increased the claims and the necessities of 
ois wife. The child, for a time, appealed to his pride. It was 

fine boy, who was supposed and said to resemble himself. 
This pleased him for a while, but did not long restrain him from 
indulgences, which, grateful to him from the first, had now 
acquired over him all the force of habit. He soon disappeared 
from his home, and again, for long and weary periods, left the 
poor Leda to all the cares and solitude, without the freedom, of 
widowhood. 

But a circumstance was about to .occur, which suddenly drew 
his attention to his home. Whether it was that some meddlesome 
neighbour informed him of the assistance which his wife derived 
from Arthur Holt, or that he himself had suddenly awakened to 
the inquiry as to the source of her supplies, we cannot say ; but 
certain it is that the suspicions of his evil nature were aroused ; 
and he who would not abandon his low and worthless associates 
for the sake of duty and love, was now prompted to do so by his 
hate. He returned secretly to the neighbourhood of his home 
and put himself in a place of concealment. 

The cottage of the Widow Heywood was within three quar 
ters of a mile of Reedy River, on the opposite side of which 
s/ood the farm of Arthur Holt. This space the young farmer 


250 THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 

was accustomed nightly to cross, bearing, with him the com- 
modity, whether of flour, honey, milk, meat, or corn, which his 
benevolence prompted him to place on the threshold of his sad 
and suffering neighbour. There was a little grove of chestnut 
and other forest trees, that stood about two hundred yards from 
Leda’s cottage. A part of this grove belonged to their dwelling; 
the rest was unenclosed. Through this grove ran one of the lines 
of fence which determined the domain of the cottage. On both 
sides of the fence, in the very centre of this thicket, there were 
steps, gradually rising, from within and without, to its top, — a 
mode of constructing a passage frequent in the country, which, 
having all the facilities of a gateway, was yet more permanent, 
and without its disadvantages. To this point came Arthur Holt 
nightly. On these steps he laid nis tribute, whether of charity 
or a still lingering love, or both, and, retiring to the thicket, he 
waited, sometimes for more than an hour, until he caught a 
glimpse of the figure of Leda, descending through the grove, and 
Dossessing herself of the supply. This done, and she departed ; 
the young farmer, sighing deeply, would turn away unseen, un- 
suspected, perhaps, and regain his own cottage. 

On these occasions the two never met. The Widow Hey wood, 
on her deathbed, had confided to her daughter the secret of her 
own interviews with Arthur, and he, to spare himself as well as 
Leda, the pain of meeting, had appointed his own and her hour 
of coming, differently. Whether she, at any time, suspected his 
uropinquity, cannot be conjectured. That she was touched to the 
heart by his devotion, cannot well be questioned. 

For five weary nights did the malignant and suspicious eyes 
of John Houston, from a contiguous thicket, watch these proceed- 
ings with feelings of equal hate and mortification. Filled with 
the most foul and loathsome anticipations — burning to find vic- 
tims — to detect, expose, destroy — he beheld only a spectacle 
which increased his mortification. He beheld innocence superior 
to misfortune — love that did not take advantage of its power — a 
benevolence that rebuked his own worthlessness and hardness of 
heart — a purity on the part of both the objects of his jealousy, 
which mocked his comprehension, as it was so entirely above any 
capacity of his own, whether of mind or heart, to appreciate. 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


251 


It was now the fifth night of his watch. He began to despair 
of his object. He had seen nothing to give the least confirmation 
to his suspicions. His wife had appeared only as she was, as 
pure as an angel ; — his ancient enemy not less so. He was 
furious that he could find no good cause of fury, and weary of a 
watch which was so much at variance with his habits. He de- 
termined that night to end it. With the night, and at the usual 
hour, came the unfailing Arthur. He placed his bowl of milk 
upon the steps, his sack of meal, a small vessel of butter, and a 
neat little basket of apples. For a moment he lingered by the 
fence, then slipping back, adroitly ensconced himself in a neigh- 
bouring thicket, from whence he could see every movement of 
the fair sufferer by whom they were withdrawn. This last 
movement of the young farmer had not been unseen by the 
guilty husband. Indeed, it was this part of the proceeding 
which, more than any thing beside, had forced upon him the 
conviction that the parties did not meet; She came, and she, too, 
lingered by the steps, before she proceeded to remove the provis- 
ions. Deep was the sigh that escaped her — deeper than usual 
were her emotions. She sank upon one of the steps — she clasp- 
ed her hands convulsively — her lips moved — she was evidently 
breathing a spontaneous prayer to heaven, at the close of which 
she wept bitterly, the deep sobs seeming to burst from a heart 
that felt itself relieved by this mournful power of expression. 

Was it the echo of her own sighs — her sobs — that came to her 
from the thicket ? She started, and with wild eye gazing around 
her, proceeded with all haste to gather up her little stores. But 
in tins she was prevented. The answering sigh, the sob, — com- 
ing from the lips of his hated rival and ancient enemy, had gone, 
hissingly, as it were, into the very brain of John Houston. He 
darted from his place of concealment, dashed the provisions from 
the hands of his wife, and, with a single blow, smote her to the 
earth, while he cried out to Holt in the opposite thicket, some in- 
coherent language of insults and opprobrium. The movement 
of the latter was quite as prompt, though not in season to pre- 
vent the unmanly blow. He sprang forward, and, grasping the 
offender about the body, lifted him with powerful effort from the 
earth, upon which he was about to hurl him again with all the 


252 


TIIE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


fury of indignant manhood, when Leda leapt to her feet, and 
interposed. At the sound of her voice, the very tones of which 
declared her wish, Arthur released his enemy,- but with no easy 
effort. The latter, regaining his feet, and recovering in some 
degree his composure, turned to his wife and commanded her 
absence. 

“ I cannot go — I will not — while there is a prospect of blood- 
shed,” was her firm reply. 

“ What ! you would see it, would you ? Doubtless, the sight 
of my blood would delight your eyes ! But hope not for it ! — 
Arthur Holt, are you for ever to cross my path, and with impu- 
nity ? Shall there never be a settlement between us ? Is the day 
of reckoning never to come ? Speak ! Shall we fight it out here, 
in the presence of this woman, or go elsewhere, where there will 
be no tell-tale witnesses? Will you follow me ?” 

“ Go not, — follow him not, — Arthur Holt. Go to your home ! 
I thank you, I bless you for what you have done for me and 
mine ; — for the mother who looks on us from heaven, — for the 
child that still looks to me on earth. May God bless you for 
your charity and goodness ! Go now, Arthur Holt — go to your 
own home — and look not again upon mine. Once more, God’s 
blessings be upon you ! May you never want them.” 

There was a warmth, an earnestness, almost a violence in the 
tone and manner of this adjuration, so new to the usually meek 
and calm deportment of his wife, that seemed, on a sudden, to 
confound the brutal husband. He turned on her a vacant look 
of astonishment. He was very far from looking for such bold- 
ness — such audacity — in that quarter. But his forbearance was 
not of long duration, and he was already beginning a fierce and 
almost frenzied repetition of his blasphemies, when the subdued, 
but firm answer of Arthur Holt again diverted his attention. The 
good sense of the young farmer made him at once sensible of the 
danger to the unhappy woman of using any language calculated 
to provoke the always too prompt brutality of the husband, and, 
stifling his own indignation with all his strength, he calmly prom- 
ised compliaLce with her requisitions. 

“ There are many reasons,” he added, “ why there should be 
no strife between John Houston and myseT ; we were boys to- 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


253 


gether, our fathers loved one another ; we have slept in the same 
bed.” 

“ That shall not be your excuse, Arthur Holt,” exclaimed the 
other, interrupting him ; “ you shall not escape me by any such 
pretences. My father’s name shall not shelter your cowardice.” 

“ Cowardice !” 

“ Ay, cowardice ! cowardice ! What are you but an unmanly 
coward !” 

There was a deep, but quiet struggle, in the breast of Arthur, 
to keep down the rising devil in his mood ; but he succeeded, 
and turning away, he contented himself with saying simply : 

“ You know that I am no coward, John Houston — nobody bet- 
ter than yourself. You will take good heed how you approach 
such cowardice as mine.” 

“ Do you dare me !” 

“ Yes !” 

“ No ! no !” cried the wife, again flinging herself between 
them. Away, Arthur Holt, why will you remain when you see 
what I am doomed to suffer ?” 

“ I go, Leda, but I dread to leave you in such hands. God 
have you in his holy keeping !” 


264 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER IV. 


We pass over a period of eighteen months. In this time John 
Houston had sold out the little cottage near Reedy River, and 
had removed his wife to the residence of his mother near Paris 
Mountain. Why he had not adopted this measure on the demise 
of Widow Hey wood is matter of conjecture only. His own mother 
was now dead, and it was the opinion of those around, that, it 
was only after this latter event that he could venture upon a step 
which might seem to divide the sceptre of household authority — 
a point about which despotical old ladies are apt to be very 
jealous. His household was as badly provided for as ever, but 
some good angel, whose presence might have been suspected, 
still watched over the wants of the suffering wife, and the hollow 
of an ancient chestnut now received the stores which we have 
formerly seen placed upon the rude blocks near the thicket fence 
in Greenville. Whether John Houston still suspected the inter 
ference of his hated playmate we cannot say. The pruden 
caution of the latter availed so that they did not often meet, anc. 
never under circumstances which could justify a quarrel. But 
events were ripening which were to bring them unavoidably into 
collision. We are now in the midst of the year 1776. The 
strife had already begun, of Whig and Tory, in the upper part 
of South Carolina. It happened some time in 1774 that the after, 
wards notorious Moses Kirkland stopped one night at the dwelling 
of John Houston. This man was already busy in stirring up 
disaffection to the popular party of the State. He was a man of 
loose, vicious habits, and irregular propensities. He and John 
Houston were kindred spirits ; and the hunter was soon enlisted 
under his banners. He was out with Kirkland in the campaign 
of 1775, when the Tories were dispersed and put down by the 
decisive measures of General Williamson and William Henry 
Drayton. It so happened that Arthur Holt made his appearance 
in the field, also for the first time, in the . armv of Williamson 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


255 


The two knew that they were now opponents as they had long 
been enemies. But they did not meet. The designs of Kirkland 
were baffled, his troops dispersed, and the country settled down 
into a condition of seeming quiet. But it was a seeming quiet 
only. The old wounds festered, and when, in 1780, the me- 
tropolis of the State fell into the hands of the British, yielding to 
captivity nearly the whole of its military power, the Tories re- 
sumed their arms and impulses with a fury which long forbear- 
ance had heightened into perfect madness. Upon the long and 
melancholy history of that savage warfare which followed, we 
need not dwell. The story is already sufficiently well known. 
It is enough to say that John Houston distinguished himself by his 
cruelties. Arthur Holt threw by the plough, and was one of 
Butler’s men for a season. With the decline of British power in 
the lower, the ascendancy in the upper country finally passed 
over to the Whigs. Both parties were now broken up into little 
squads of from ten to fifty persons ; — the Tories, the better to 
avoid pursuit, the Whigs, the better to compass them in all their 
hiding-places. 

It was a cold and cheerless evening in the month of November 
that Arthur Holt, armed to the teeth, stopped for the night, with a 
party of eleven men, at a cottage about fourteen miles from his 
own dwelling on the banks of Reedy River. 

An hour had not well elapsed, before Arthur Holt found some 
one jerking at his shoulder. He opened his eyes and recognised 
the epileptic of whom mention was made in the early part of our 
narrative. Acker was still an epileptic, and still, to all appear- 
ance, a boy ; — he was small, decrepit, pale, and still liable to the 
shocking disease, the effects of which were apparent equally in 
his withered face and shrivelled person. But he was not without 
intelligence, and his memory was singularly tenacious of benefits 
anc' injuries Eagerly challenging the attention of Arthur Hoi* 
he proceeded to tell him that John Houston had only two hours 
before been seen with a party of seven, on his way to the farm at 
Paris Mountain, where, at that very moment, he might in all 
probability be found. By this time the troopers, accustomed to 
sudden rousings, were awake and in possession of the intelligence. 
It was greedily listened to by all but Arthur Holt. John Houston 


256 THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 

was particularly odious in his own neighbourhood. Several of 
the inhabitants had fallen victims to his brutality and hate. To 
take him, living or dead, — to feed the vengeance for which they 
thirsted, — was at once the passion of the party. It was with 
some surprise that they found their leader apathetic and disposed 
to fling doubt upon the information. 

“ I know not how you could have seen John Houston, Peter 
Acker, with seven men, when we left him behind us, going be- 
low, and crossing at Daniel’s Ford on the Ennoree, only two days 
ago.” 

“ ’Twas him I seed, Captain, and no other. • Don’t you think I 
knows John Houston ? Oughtn’t I to know him ? Wasn’t it he 
that used to beat me, and duck me in the water ? I knows him. 
’Twas John Houston, I tell you, and no other person.” 

“ You are mistaken, Peter — you must be mistaken. No horse 
could have brought him from the Ennoree so soon.” 

“ He’s on his own horse, the great bay. ’Tis John Houston, 
and you must catch him and hang him.” 

One of the party, a spirited young man, named Fletchall, now 
said : 

“ Whether it’s Houston and his men or not, Captain Holt, we 
should see who the fellows are. Acker ought to know Houston, 
and though we heard of him on the Ennoree, we may have 
heard wrong. It’s my notion that Acker is right ; and every 
man of Reedy River, that claims to be a man, ought to see to it.” 

There was a sting in this speech that made it tell. They did 
not understand the delicacy of their Captain’s situation, nor could 
he explain it. He could only sigh and submit. Buckling on his 
armour, he obeyed the necessity, and his eager troop was soon in 
motion for the cottage of Houston at Paris Mountain. There, two 
hours before, John Houston had arrived. He had separated from 
his companions. It was not affection for his wife that brought 
Houston to his home. On the contrary, his salutation was that 
of scorn and suspicion. He seemed to have returned, brooding 
on some dark imagination or project. When his wife brought 
his child, and put him on his knees, saying with a mournful look 
of reproach, “ You do not even ask for your son !” the reply, be- 
traying the foulest of fancies— “ How know I that he is !” showed 


THE GIANT S COFFIN 


25? 


too plainly the character of the demon that was struggling in his 
soul. The miserable woman shrunk back in horror, while his 
eyes, lightened by a cold malignant smile, pursued her as if in 
mockery. When she placed before him a little bread and meat, 
he repulsed it, exclaiming: “ Would you have me fed by your 
Arthur V* And when she meekly replied by an assurance that 
the food did not come from him, his answer, “ Ay, but I am not 
so sure of the sauce !” indicated a doubt so, horrible, that the poor 
woman rushed from the apartment with every feeling and fibre 
of her frame convulsed. Without a purpose, except to escape 
from suspicions by which she was tortured, she had turned the 
corner of the enclosure, hurrying, it would seem, to a little thicket, 
where her sorrows would be unseen, when she suddenly encoun- 
tered Arthur Holt, with a cocked pistol in his grasp. The troop- 
ers had dismounted and left their horses in the woods. They 
were approaching the house cautiously, on foot, and from differ- 
ent quarters. The object was to effect a surprise of the Tory , — 
since, armed and desperate, any other more open mode of ap- 
proach might, even if successful, endanger valuable life. The 
plan had been devised by Arthur. He had taken to himself that 
route which brought him first to the cottage. His object was 
explained in the few first words with Leda Houston. 

“ Arthur Holt ! — you here !” was her exclamation, as she 
started at his approach. 

“ Ay ; and your husband is here V* 

“ No, no !” was the prompt reply. 

“ Nay, deny not ! I would save him — away ! let him fly at 
once. We shall soon be upon him l” 

A mute but expressive look of gratitude rewarded him, while, 
forgetting the recent indignities to which she had been subjected, 
Leda hurried back to the cottage and put Houston in possession 
of the facts. He started to his feet, pht the child from his knee, 
though still keeping his hand upon its shoulder, and glaring upon 
her with eyes of equal jealousy and rage, he exclaimed — 

“ Woman ! yo.u have brought my enemy upon me !” * 

To this charge the high-souled woman rriade no answer, but 
her form became more erect, and her cheek grew paler, while 
her exquisitely chiselled lips w r ere compressed with the effort te 

IS 


258 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


keep down her stifling indignation. She approached him as if 
to relieve him of the child ; but he repulsed her, and grasping 
the little fellow firmly in his hands, with no tenderness of hold, 
he lifted him to his shoulder, exclaiming — 

u No ! he shares my danger ! he goes with me. He is at least 
your child — he shall protect me from your — ” 

The sentence was left unfinished as he darted through the 
door ! With a mother’s scream she bounded after him, as he 
took his way to the edge of the little coppice in which his horse 
was fastened. The agony of a mother’s soul lent wings to her 
feet. She reached him ere he could undo the fastenings of his 
horse, and, seizing him by his arm, arrested his progress. 

“ What !” he exclaimed ; “ you w r ould seize — you would de- 
liver me !” 

“ My child ! my child !” was her only answer, as she clung 
to his arm, and endeavoured to tear the infant from his grasp. 

“ He goes with me ! He shall protect me from the shot !” 

“ You will not, cannot risk his precious life.” 
f* Do I not risk mine ?” 

“ My son — your son !” 

“ Were I sure of that !” 

“ God of heaven ! help me ! Save him ! save him !” 

But there was no time for parley. A pistol-shot was fired 
from the opposite quarter of the house, whether by accident, or 
for the purpose of alarm, is not known, but it prompted the 
instant movement of the ruffian, who, in order to extricate him- 
self from the grasp of his wife, smote her to the earth, and in 
the midst of the child’s screams hurried forward with his prize. 
To reach the coppice, to draw forth and mount his horse, was 
the work of an instant only. The life of the hunter and the 
partisan had made him expert enough in such performances. 
Mounted on a splendid bay, of the largest size and greatest 
speed, he lingered but a moment in sight, the child conepicuouslv 
elevated in his grasp, its head raised above his left shoulder, while one 
of its little arms might be seen stretching towards his motner, now 
rising from the earth. At this instant Arthur Holt made his ap- 
pearance. From the wood, where he had remained as long as he 
might, he had beheld the brutal action of his enemy. It was the 


THE GIANT S COFFIN 


259 


second time that he had witnessed such a deed, and his hand now 
convulsively grasped and cocked his pistol, as he rushed forward 
to revenge it. But the unhappy woman rose in time to prevent 
him. Her extended arms were thrown across his path. He 
raised the deadly weapon above them. 

“ Would you shoot ! oh, my God ! would you shoot ! Do you 
not see my child ! my child !” 

The action of Arthur was suspended at the mother’s words ; 
and, lifting the child aloft with a powerful arm, as if in triumph 
and defiance, the brutal father, putting spurs to his horse, went 
ofF at full speed. A single bound enabled the noble animal to 
clear the enclosure, and, appearing but a single moment upon the 
hillside, the mother had one more glimpse of her child, whose 
screams, in another moment, were drowned in the clatter of the 
horse’s feet. She sunk to the ground at the foot of Arthur, as his 
comrades leapt over the surrounding fence. 


THE WIGWaM THE CABltf. 


cao 


CHAPTER V. 

Pursuit under present circumstances was pretty much out of 
the question — yet Arthur Holt determined upon it. John Hous- 
ton was mounted upon one of the most famous horses of the 
country. He had enjoyed a rest of a couple of hours before the 
troopers came upon him. The steeds of the latter, at all times 
inferior, were jaded with the day’s journey. Any attempt at 
direct pursuit would, therefore, in all probability, only end in 
driving the Tory out of the neighbourhood, thus increasing the 
chances of his final escape. This was by no means the object 
of the party, and when Arthur ordered the pursuit, some of his 
men remonstrated by showing, or endeavouring to show, that such 
must be 'the effect of it. Arthur Holt, however, had his own 
objects. But his commands were resisted by no less a person 
than Leda herself. 

“ Do not pursue, Arthur, for my sake, do not pursue. My 
child ! — he will slay my child if you press him hard. He is des- 
perate. You know him not. Press him not, for my sake, — for 
the child’s sake, — but let him go free.” 

The entreaty, urged strenuously and with all those tears and 
prayers which can only flow from a mother’s heart, was effec- 
tual — at least to prevent that direct pursuit which Arthur had 
meditated. But, though his companions favoured the prayers of 
the wife and mother, they were very far from being disposed to 
let the Tory go free. On the contrary, when, a little after, they 
drew aside to the copse for the purpose of farther consultation, 
Arthur Holt found, to his chagrin, that his course with regard 
to Houston was certainly suspected. His comrades assumed a 
decision in the matter which seemed to take the business out of 
sis hands. Young Fletchall did not scruple to say, that he was 
i c. satisfied with the spirit which Arthur had shown in the pur- 
suit , and the hints conveyed by more than one, in the course of 
the discussion, were of such a nature, that the mortified Arthul 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


261 


JlfeW up his command ; a proceeding which seemed to occasion 
no regret or dissatisfaction. Fletchall was immediately invested 
with it, and proceeded to exercise it with a degree of acuteness 
and vigour which soon satisfied the party of his peculiar fitness 
for its duties. His plan was simple but comprehensive. He 
said : “We cannot press the pursuit, or we drive him off; but 
we can so fix it as to keep him where he is. If we do not press 
him, he will keep in the woods, near abouts, till he can find some 
chance of getting the child to the mother again. There’s nC 
doubt an understanding betw'een them. She knows where to find 
him in the woods, or he’ll come back at night to the farm. We 
must put somebody to watch over all her movements. Who wj' 
that be ?” 

The question was answered by the epileptic, Acker, who, a : 
asked, had hung upon the skirts of the party. 

“ I will watch her !” 

“ You !” 

“ Yes ! I’m as good a one as you can get.” 

“ Very well ! but suppose you have one of your fits, Acker V 

“ I won’t have one now for two weeks. My time’s over for 
this month.” 

“ W ell, in two weeks, I trust, his time will be Over too. Wv3 
will *get some twenty more fellows and make a ring round him. 
That’s my plan. Don’t press, for I wouldn’t have him hurt the 
child ; but mark him when he aims to pass the ring.” 

The plan thus agreed on, with numerous details which need 
not be given here, was immediately entered upon by all parties. 
Arthur Holt alone took no share in the adventure. The design 
was resolved upon even without his privity, though the general 
object could not be concealed from his knowledge. On throwing 
up his commission he had withdrawn from his comrades, under a 
show of mortification, which was regarded as sufficiently natural 
by those around him to justify such a course. He returned to 
his farm on Reedy River, but he was no indifferent or inactive 
spectator of events. 

Meanwhile, John Houston had found a temporary retreat some 
six miles distant from the dwelling of his wife. It was a spot 
seemingly impervious, in the density of its woods, to the steps ol 


262 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


man. A small natural cavity in a hillside had been artificially 
deepened, in all probability, by the bear, who had left it as a 
heritage to the hunter to whom he had yielded up his ears. 
The retreat was known to the hunter only. He had added, from 
time to time, certain little improvements of his own. Cells were 
opened on one side, and then the other. These were strewn with 
dried leaves and rushes, and, at the remote inner extremity, 
a fourth hollow had been prepared so as to admit of fire, the 
smoke finding its way through a small and simple opening 
at the top. All around this rude retreat the woods were dense, 
tne hunter being at particular pains to preserve it as a place of 
secrec}' and concealment. Its approach was circuitous, and the 
very entrance upon it, one of those happy discoveries, by which 
..a.ure is made to accomplish the subtlest purposes of art. Two 
gigantic shafts, shooting out from the same root, had run up in 
diverging but parallel lines, leaving between them an opening 
through which, at a moderate bound, a steed might make his 
way. On each side of this mighty tree the herbage crowded 
closely ; the tree itself seemed to close the passage, and behind 
it care was taken, by freely scattering brush and leaves, to re- 
move any traces of horse or human footsteps. In this place 
John Houston found refuge. To this place, in the dead of night, 
the unhappy Leda found her way. How she knew of the* spot 
may be conjectured only. But, prompted by a mother’s love 
and a mother’s fears, she did not shrink from the task cf explo- 
ring the dreary forest alone. Here she found her miserable 
husband, and was once more permitted to clasp her infant to 
her bvisom. The little fellow slept soundly upon the rushes, in 
one of the recesses of the cave. The father sat at the entrance, 
keeping watch over him. His stern eye looked upon the em- 
brace of mother and child with a keen and painful interest ; and 
when the child, awakened out of sleep, shrieking with joy, clung 
to the neck of the mother, sobbing her name with a convul- 
sive delight, he turned from the spectacle with a single sentence, 
muttered through his closed teeth, by which we may see what 
his meditations had been — “ Had the brat but called me father !” 
The words were unheard by the mother, too full of joy to be 
conscious of any thing but her child and her child’s recovery 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN 


263 


When, however, before the dawn of day, she proposed to leave 
him and take the child with her, she was confounded to meet 
with denial. 

“ No !” said the brutal father. “ He remains with me. If he 
is my child, he shall remain as my security and yours. Hear 
me, worpan ! Your ruffians have not pursued me ; your Arthur 
Holt knows better than to press upon me ; but I know their aims. 
They have covered the outlets. They would make my captivity 
secure. I wish but three days ; in that time, Cunningham will 
give them employment, and I shall walk over them as I please. 
But, during that time, I shall want food for myself and horse — 
perhaps you will think there is some necessity for bringing food 
to the child. I do not object to that. Bring it then yourself, 
nightly, and remember, the first show of treachery seals his 
fate !” 

He pointed to the child as he spoke. 

“ Great God !” she exclaimed. “ Are you a man, John 
Houston ! Will you keep the infant from me !” 

“ Ay ! — you should thank heaven that I do not keep ybu from 
him also. But away ! Bring the provisions ! Be faithful, and 
you shall have the child. But, remember ! if I am entrapped, 
he dies !” 

We pass over the horror of the mother. At the dawn of day, 
as she was hurrying, but not unseen, along the banks of Reedy 
River, she was encountered by Arthur Holt. 

“ I went to your house at midnight, Leda, to put you on your 
guard,” was the salutation of the farmer. “ I know where you 
have been, and can guess what duty is before you. I must also 
tell you its danger.” 

He proceeded to explain to her the watch that was put upon 
her movements, and the cordon militaire by which her husband 
was surrounded. 

“ What am I to do !” was her exclamation, as, wringing her 
hands, the tears for the first time flowed freely from her eyes. 

“ I will tell you ! Go not back to your cottage, till you can 
procure the child. Go now to the stone heap on the river bank 
below, which they call the c Giant’s Coffin.’ There, in an hour 
from now, I will bring you a basket of provisions. The place 


•264 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


is very secret, and before it is found out that you go there, you 
will have got the child. Nightly, I will fill the basket in the 
same place, which, at the dawn, you can procure. Go now, be- 
fore we are seen, and God be with you !” 

They separated — the young farmer for his home, and Leda 
for the gloomy vault which popular tradition had dignified with 
the title of the “ Giant's Coffin.’' This was an Indian giant, by 
the way, whose exploits, in the erection of Table Mountain, for 
gymnastic purposes, would put to shame the inferior feats of the 
devil, under direction of Merlin or Michael Scott. But we have 
no space in this chapter for such descriptions. Enough if we 
give some idea of the sort of coffin and the place of burial which 
the giant selected for himself, when he could play his mountain 
pranks no longer. The coffin was a vaulted chamber of stone, 
lying at the river’s edge, and liable to be overflowed in seasons 
of freshet. It took its name from its shape. Its area was an 
oblong square, something more than twelve feet in length, and 
something less than five in breadth. Its depth at the upper end 
was about six feet, but it sloped gradually down, until, at the 
bottom, the ends lay almost even with the surrounding rocks. 
The inner sides were tolerably smooth and upright— the outer 
presented the appearance of huge boulders, in no way differing 
from the ordinary shape and externals of such detached masses. 
The separate parts had evidently, at one period, been united. 
Some convulsion of nature had fractured the mass, and left the 
parts in a position so relative, that tradition might well be per- 
mitted to assume the labours of art in an achievement which was 
really that of nature alone. To complete the fancied resem- 
blance of this chamber to a coffin, it had a lid ; a thin layer of 
stone, detached from the rest, which, as the earth around it had 
been loosened and washed away by the rains, had gradually 
slid down from the heights above, and now in part rested upon 
the upper end of the vault. The boys at play, uniting their 
strength, had succeeded in forcing it down a foot or more, so 
that it now covered, securely from the weather, some four or 
five feet of the “ Giant’s Coffin.” It was at this natural chamber 
that Arthur Holt had counselled Leda Houston to remain, until 
he could bring the promised supply of provisions. This he did, 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


265 


ounctually, at the time appointed, and continued to do until it 
ceased to be necessary ; to this spot did the wretched wife and 
mother repair before dawn of every morning, bearing her burden 
with all the uncomplaining meekness of a broken heart. We 
must suppose, in the meantime, that the cordon has been drawn 
around the tract of country in which it was known that Houston 
harboured. The news was spread, at the same time, that an 
attack might be expected from Bloody Bill Cunningham, or 
some of his men ; and the consequence was, that the country 
was every where in arms and vigilant. A feeling of pity for 
Leda Houston, who was generally beloved, alone prevented the 
more daring young men from pressing upon the fugitive, hunt- 
ing him, with dog and fire, and bringing the adventure to a fierce 
and final issue. Meanwhile, the epileptic, Acker, was active 
in the business which he had undertaken. He was partially 
successful — but of his proceedings we must speak at another 
moment. 

The situation of Leda Houston was in no ways improved by 
the diligence, the patience, the devotion which she displayed in 
her servitude. She did not seem to make any progress in sub- 
duing the inexorable nature of her husband. She was permitted 
to be with and to feed her child ; to clasp him to her bosom 
when she slept, and to watch over his sleep with that mixed 
feeling of hope and fear, which none but a mother knows. But 
these were all her privileges. The brutal father, still insinuating 
base and unworthy suspicions, declared that the child should 
remain, a pledge of her fidelity, and a partial guaranty for his 
own safety. 

Four days had now elapsed in this manner. On the morning 
of the fifth, at a somewhat later hour than usual, she re-appeared 
with her basket, and, having set down her stores, proceeded to 
tell her husband of the arrival of a certain squad of troopers, 
“ Butler’s men,” known for the fierce hostility with which they 
hunted the men of “ Cunningham.” The tidings gave him some 
concern. He saw in it the signs of a dogged determination 
of the neighbourhood to secure him at all hazards ; since, from 
what he knew of the present condition of the war, these men 
could be required in that quarter only for some such purpose 


266 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


They were wanted elsewhere. “ Did you see them V 9 ^as the 
question, which she answered in the negative. “ Who told 
you then of their arrival V 9 She was silent ! Her counte- 
nance underwent a change. “ Woman ! you have spoken with 
Holt ! These are his provisions !” With a blow of his foot he 
struck the basket from her hand, and, in his fury, trampled 
upon the scattered stores. It was with difficulty that the un- 
happy woman gathered up enough to pacify the hunger of the 
child. That day was passed in sullen and ferocious silence on 
his part — on hers in mute caresses of her boy. His darker 
suspicions were in full force, and darker thoughts came with 
them. “ Could I but know !” he muttered. The child has 
my mouth and nose ; but the forehead, the hair, the eyes, — are 
his!” Convulsed with terrible fancies, the miserable man hur- 
ried to the entrance of the cavern, and throwing himself upon 
the earth, leaned back, and looked up through the leafy openings 
at the bits of sky that were suffered to appear above. In this 
gloomy mood and posture, hours passed by as moments. It was 
midnight. A change of weather was at hand. The stars were 
hidden — the sky overcast with clouds, while the winds, seeming 
to subside, were moaning through the woods as one in a deep 
and painful sleep. The sound, the scene, were congenial with 
the outlaw’s soul. It was full of angry elements that only 
waited the signal to break forth in storm. Suddenly, he was 
roused from his meditations by the cessation of all sounds from 
within the cave. The mother slept there, she had been playing 
with the child, and he upon her bosom. Nature, in her case, 
had sunk, in spite of sorrow, under fatigue. And she slept 
deeply, her slumbers broken only by a plaintive moaning of 
those griefs that would not sleep. With a strange curiosity 
Houston seated himself quietly beside the pair, while his eyes 
keenly perused the calm and innocent features of the child. 
Long was the study, and productive of conflicting emotions. It 
was interrupted with a start, and his eyes involuntarily turned, 
with even a less satisfied expression, upon the features of his 
wife. 

But it was not to watch or to enjoy the beauty which he beheld, 
that John Houston now bent his dark brows over the sleeping 




THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


267 


oTrwiWan/V'Vf 6 ' ThS eXpreSSi ° n in his “-wastha, 
ol a wild and fearful curiosity suddenly aroused. She had sno 

ken in her sleep. She had uttered a word-a name-w ch of 

all others, was most likely, from any lips, ,o awaken his most 

thaTofTT^r, 1 h r lips> most ,erribie - The ™ 

of Aithur Holt,— and she still murmured. The ears of the 
suspicious husband were placed close to her lins, that none of 
he whispered sounds might escape him. He heard enough to open 
to him a vista, at the extremity of which his diseased imagination 
saw the worst shapes of hate and jealousy. With the pressing 
thought m her memory of the tasks before her. she spoke of the 
little basket— the bread— the bottle of milk, the slender slices of 
ham or venison-which she had been accustomed to receive and 
bring. Then came the two words, “ Giant’s Coffin,” and the 
quick fancy of’the outlaw, stimulated by hate and other passions, 
immediately reached, at a bound, the whole narrative of her de- 
pendence upon Holt and her meetings with him at the “ Giant’s 
Coffin !” 

A dark smile passed over his countenance. It was the smile 
of a demon, who is at length, after long being baffled, in possession 
of his prey. Leda slept on— soundly slept— for nature had at 
length coerced the debtor, and compelled her rights— and the 
hour was approaching when it was usual for her to set out on 
her nightly progress. The resolution came, quick as lightning, 
to the mind of the ruffian. He rose stealthily from the rushes, 
— drew his pistols from his belt, silently examined the flints, and, 
looking at the knife in his bosom, stole forth from the cavern. 
With a spirit exulting with the demonaic hope of assuring him- 
self of a secret long suspected, and of realizing a vengeance 
long delayed, — and familiar, night and day, with every step in 
his progress, he hurried directly across the country to the banks 
of Reedy River. The night, by this time, had become tempestu- 
ous. Big drops of rain already began to fall ; but these caused 
no delay to the hardy outlaw. He reached the river, and, 
moving now with cautious steps from rock to rock, he ap- 
proached the “ Giant’s Coffin” with the manner of one who ex- 
pects to find a victim and an enemy. One hand grasped a pistol, 
the other a knife ! — and, stealing onward with the pace of the Indian, 


268 


THE W j(*WAM AND THE CABIN. 


he hung over the sides of the “ Coffin,” and peered into its dark 
chamber with his keenest eyes. It was untenanted. “ I am too 
soon,” he muttered. “ Well ! I can wait !” And where better 
to await the victim — where more secure from detection — than in 
the vault which lay before him ! — one half covered from the 
weather and shut in from all inspection, — that alone excepted, for 
which he had come prepared. The keen gusts of wind which 
now came across the stream laden with rain, was an additional 
motive to this movement. He obeyed the suggestion, passed into 
the mouth of the “ Coffin ;” and, crouching, from sight, in a sit- 
ting posture, in the upper or covered part of the chamber, he sat 
with the anxiety of a passion which did not, however, impair its 
patience, awaiting for his foe. 

He had not reached this position unseen or unaccompanied. 
We have already intimated that Acker, the epileptic, had made 
some progress in his discoveries. With the singular cunning, 
and the wonderful acuteness which distinguish some of the 
faculties, where others are impaired in the same individual, he 
had contrived, unseen and unsuspected, to track Leda Houston 
to the place of her husband’s concealment. He had discovered 
the periods of her incoming and departure, and, taking his rest 
at all other periods, he was always prepared to renew his surveil- 
lance at those moments when the wife was to go forth. He had 
barely resumed his watch, on the night in question, when he 
was surprised to see Houston himself and not his wife emerging 
from the cave. He followed cautiously his footsteps. Light of 
foot, and keeping at convenient distance, his espionage was 
farther assisted by the wind, w hich, coming in their faces, 
effectually kept all sounds of pursuit from the ears of the outlaw. 
Elis progress was not so easy when the latter emerged from the 
woods, and stood upon the banks of the rive:. His approach 
now required more caution ; but, stealing on from shrub to shrub, 
and rock to rock, Acker at length stood— or rather crouched — 
upon the brink of the river also, and at but small distance from 
the other. But of this distance he had ceased to be conscious. 
He was better informed, however, when, a moment after, he 
heard a dull, clattering, but low sound, which he rightly conjee- 
tured to have been caused by some pressure upon the lower lid 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


m 


of the Coffin* which, being somewhat pendulous, was apt to 
vibrate slightly, in spite of its great length and weight, under 
any pressure from above. This sound apprised Acker of the 
exact whereabouts of the outlaw, and his keen eyes at length 
detected the dim outline of the latter’s form, as he stood upon 
the lid of the Coffin, the moment before he disappeared within ; 
recesses. Encouraged to advance, by the disappearance of th > 
other, the Epileptic did so with extreme caution. He was 
favoured by the, hoarse tumbling of the water as it poured its 
way among the rocks, and by the increasing discords of the 
wind and rain, which now came down in heavy showers. As 
he crawled from rock to rock, with the stealthy movement of a 
cat along some precipitous ledge, shrinking and shivering beneath 
the storm, his own desire for shelter led him suddenly to the 
natural conclusion that Houston had found his within the vault. 
The ideas of Acker came to him slowly ; but, gradually, as he 
continued to approach, he remembered the clattering of the Coffin- 
lid, — he remembered how, in his more youthful days, the boys, 
with joint strength, had forced it to its present place, and he 
conceived the sudden purpose of making the Coffin of the Giant, 
that also of the deadly enemy whose boyish persecutions he had 
neither forgot nor forgiven. To effect his present object, which, 
suddenly conceived, became for the time an absorbing thirst, a 
positive frenzy, in his breast, — he concentrated all his faculties, 
whether of mind or of body, upon his task. His pace was 
deliberate, and, so stealthy, that he reached the upper end of 
the Coffin, laid himself down beside it, and, applying his ear to 
one of the crevices, distinctly heard the suppressed breathings of 
the man within. Crawling back, he laid his hands lightly and 
with the greatest care upon the upper and heavier end of the 
stone. His simple touch, so nicely did it seem to be balanced, 
caused its vibration ; and with the first consciousness of its 
movement, Houston, whom we must suppose to have been lying 
down, raising his pistol with one hand, laid the other on one of 
the sides of the vault, with the view, as it was thought, to lift 
himself from his recumbent position. He did so just as the 
huge plate of stone was set in motion, and the member was 
caught and closely wedged between the mass and the side of the 


270 


THE WIGWAM AN1) THE CABIN. 


Coffin upon which it rested. A slight cry broke from the outlaw. 
The fingers were crushed, the hand was effectually secured. But 
for this, so slow was the progress of the stone, that it would 
have been very easy for Houston to have scrambled out before the 
vault was entirely closed in. Slowly, but certainly, the lid went 
down. Ignorant of the peculiar occasion- of the outlaw’s groans, 
the Epileptic answered them with a chuckle, which, had the 
former been conscious, would have taught him his enemy. But 
he had fainted. The excruciating agony of his hurt had been 
too much for his strength. Acker finished his work without 
interruption ; then piling upon the plate a mountain of smaller 
stones, he dashed away in the direction of Holt’s cottage. Here 
he encountered the young farmer, busy, as was usual about that 
hour, in making up his little basket of provisions. A few words 
from the Epileptic sufficed to inform him that they were no longer 
necessary — that Houston was gone — fled — utterly escaped, and 
now, in all probability, beyond pursuit. Such was the tale he 
told. He had his policy in it. The characteristic malignant 
cunning which had prompted him to the fearful revenge which 
he had taken upon his enemy, was studious now to keep it 
from being defeated. To have told the truth, would have been 
to open the “ Giant’s Coffin,” to undo all that had been done, 
and once more let free the hated tyrant upon whose head he had 
visited the meditated retribution of more than twenty years. 
Acker well knew the generous nature of the young farmer, and 
did not doubt that, if he declared the facts, Arthur would have 
proceeded at once to the rescue of the common enemy. He 
suppressed all show of exultation, made a plausible story — it 
matters not of what sort — by which to account for the flight of 
Houston ; and, the consequence was, that, instead of proceeding 
as before to the “ Giant’s Coffin,” Arthur Holt now prepared to 
set out for the “ Hunter’s Cave.” But the day had broke in 
tempest. A fearful storm was raging. The windows of heaven 
were opened, the rain came down in torrents, and the wind went 
forth with equal violence, as if from the whole four quarters of 



jumping in, Acker prepared to guide him to the place of retreat. 


“ The river is rising fast, Peter,” was the remark of Arthur 


TIIE GIANT’S COFFIN 


271 


as lie caught a glimpse of the swollen stream as it foamed along 
its way*. 

“ Yes !” said the other, with a sort of hiccough, by which he 
suppressed emotions which he did not venture to declare: “Yes! 
I reckon ’twon’t be many hours afore it fills the ‘ Coffin.’ ” 

“ If it keeps on at this rate,” returned the other, “ one hour 
will be enough to do that.” 

“ Only one, you think ?” 

“ Yes !.one will do !” 

Another hiccough of the Epileptic appropriately finished the 
dialogue. 


272 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Lei>a awakened from her deep sleep to find herself alone with 
the child. She was startled and alarmed at the absence of her 
husband ; but as the child was left — the great, and we may add, 
the only, object for which she could have borne so much — she 
was satisfied. On assuring herself of the departure of Houston 
from the cave, she would unhesitatingly have taken hers also — 
but the storm was now raging without, and, persuaded that her 
husband had taken advantage of its violence to cross the barriers, 
she gathered up the fragments of the last night’s supper, and 
was busy in giving her boy his little breakfast, when roused by 
the voice of Arthur Holt. The story of the Epileptic was soon 
told — as he had related it to Arthur. In this story, as there was 
nothing improbable, both parties put implicit faith ; and, cloaking 
mother and child as well as he might, the young farmer bore 
them through the close thicket to the place, some three hundred 
yards without, where, on account of the denseness of the wood, 
he had been compelled to leave the wagon. The horse of 
Houston, the “ Big Bay,” was next brought forth, but as Acker 
could neither be persuaded to mount, or take him in charge, he 
was restored to the covert until a better opportunity for removing 
him. To the surprise of the young farmer, the Epileptic was 
equally firm in refusing to go with him in the wagon. “ I don’t 
mind the ram,” said he, “ it can’t hurt me.” “ He will get his 
death,” said Leda. “ Not he,” replied Arthur, as Acker scam- 
pered through the woods ; “ the water always helps him in his 
fits.” While the wagon took one course, he took another. 
Little did they suspect his route. A terrible feeling carried him 
back to Reedy River — to a pitiless watch above that natural tomb 
in which he had buried his living victim. 

Meanwhile, what of Houston ? When he recovered his con- 
sciousness, the vault had been closed upon him ; the flat mass, 
once set in motion, had slid down the smooth edges of the 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


273 


upright sides with uninterrupted progress, and now lay above 
him, shutting out light almost equally with hope. But a faint 
glimmering reached the interior of the cell, from a crevice on 
one side, where, in consequence of some inequality of the edges, 
the lid had not settled fairly down upon it. It was the side 
opposite to that in which his fingers had been crushed, and 
where the stone still maintained its hold upon the mutilated 
member. Fie heard the whistling of the wind, the hoarse rush 
of the waters, and the heavy fall of the rain without, and a shud- 
dering sense of his true situation rushed instantly upon his sou 1 . 
For a moment he sank back, appalled, oppressed ; but' the 
numbing pain of his injured hand and wrist, up to his elbow, 
recalled him to the necessity of effort. Houston was a man of 
strong will and great energies. Though at the first moment of 
consciousness oppressed and overcome, the outlaw soon recov- 
ered himself. It was necessary that he should do something 
for his extrication. The light shut out, if not entirely the air, 
is one of those fearful facts to rouse a man in his situation and 
of his character, to all his energies. But the very first move- 
ment was one to awaken him still more sensibly to his dangers. 
Having arisen to grasp the sides of the vault, which, in the place 
where he had laid his hand was fully five feet high, his position 
when fixed there, was that of a man partially supended in the 
air. His right hand could barely touch the floor of the chamber. 
His left was utterly useless. In this position he could not even 
exert the strength which he possessed ; and, after an ineffectual 
effort, he sank back again in momentary consternation. The 
horror of that moment, passed in thought, — the despair which it 
occasioned — was the parent of new strength. He came to a 
terrible decision. To avail himself of his right hand, it was 
necessary that he should extricate the other. He had already 
tried to do so, by a vain effort at lifting the massive lid of his 
coffin. The heavy plate no longer vibrated upon a pivot. It 
had sunk into a natural position, which each upright evenly 
maintained. The hand was already lost to him. He resolved 
that it should not render the other useless. With a firmness 
which might well excite admiration, he drew the couteau de 
chasse from his bosom, and deliberately smote off the mutilated 

iy 


274 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


fingers at the joints ; dividing the crushed parts — bone and tendon, 
— from the uninjured, — falling heavil} back upon the stone floor 
the moment the hand was freed. But this time he had not 
fainted, though the operation tended to restore the hand, which 
had been deadened by the pressure and pain of its position, to 
something like sensibility. But such pain was now but slightly 
felt ; and, wrapping the hand up in his handkerchief, he prepared 
with due courage foi the difficult task before him. But the very 
hrM; effort almost convinced him of its hopelessness. In vain 
did he apply the strength of his muscular arm, the force of his 
broad shoulders, his sinewy and well-supported frame. Forced 
to crouch in his narrow limits, it was not possible for him to 
apply, to advantage, the strength which he really possessed ; and, 
from the extreme shallowness of his cell in the lower extremity, 
he was unable to address his efforts to that part where the stone 
was thinnest. At the upper part, where he could labour, the 
mass was greatly thicker than the rest ; and it was the weight 
of this mass, rather than the strength of Acker, — the momentum 
once given it from above,— that carried the plate along to the foot 
of the plane. His exertions were increased as his strength 
diminished — the cold sweat poured from his brow, — and, toiling 
against conviction — in the face of his increasing terrors, — he at 
length sunk back in exhaustion. From time to time, at brief 
intervals, he renewed his toils, each time with new hope, each 
time with a new scheme for more successful exertion. But the 
result was, on each occasion, the same ; and, yielding to despair, 
he threw himself upon the bottom of his cell and called death to 
his relief. 

While thus prostrate, with his face pressed upon the chilling 
pavement, he suddenly starts, almost to his feet, and a new terror 
seizes upon his soul. He is made conscious of a new and 
pressing danger. Is it the billows of the river — the torrents 
swollen above their bounds — that beat against the walls of his 
dungeon ? Is it the advancing waters that catch his eye glim- 
mering faint at his feet, as they penetrate the lower crevice of 
the coffin 1 A terrible shudder shook his frame ! He cannot 
doubt this new danger, and he who, a moment before, called 
upon death to relieve him from his terrors, now shouts, under 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


27* 


worsf terrors, at the -prospect of his near approach in an unex- 
pected shape. It is necessary that he should employ all his 
st’ ength — that he should make other and more desperate efforts. 
Tie rises, almost erect. He applies both arms — the maimed as 
yell as the sound, — almost unconscious of the difference, to the 
lid of his tomb. “ Buried alive !”. he cries aloud — “ Buried 
alive !” and at each cry, his sinewy arms shoot up — his broad 
shoulders are raised : — his utmost powers, concentrated upon the 
one point, in the last effort of despair, must surely be successful. 
His voice shouts with his straining sinews. He feels the mass 
above him yielding. Once more — and once again, — and still he 
is encouraged. The lid vibrates — he could not be deceived, — 
but oh ! how slightly. Another trial — he moves it as before, 
but as his strength fails, his efforts relax, — and it sinks down 
heavily in its place. Breathless, he crouches in his cell. He 
listens! Is it a footstep? — It is a movement! — the stones 
fall about the roof of his narrow dwelling. A human agency 
is above. “ Hurrah !” he cries — “ Hurrah ! Throw off' the 
stone — crush it — break it ! There is no time to be lost !” 
For a moment he fancies that the movement above is one in- 
tended for his relief. But what mean these rolling stones ? A 
new apprehension possesses him in the very moment of his 
greatest hope. He rises. Once more he extends his arms, he 
applies his shoulders; but he labours now in vain. His strength 
is not less — his efforts are not more feebler — in this than in 
his former endeavours. He cannot doubt the terrible truth ! 
New stones have been piled above his head. He is doomed ! 
His utmost powers fail to move the mass from its place. His 
human enemy is unrelenting. He cries to him in a voice of 
equal inquiry and anguish. 

“ Who is there ? what enemy ? who ? Speak to me ! who is 
above me ? Who? Who!” 

Can it be ? He is answered by a chuckle — a fell, fiendish 
laugh — the most terrible sort of answer. Can it be that a 
mortal would so laugh at such a moment? He tries to recall 
those to whom he has given most occasion for vindictiveness and 
hate. He names “ Arthur Holt !” He is again answered by a 
chuckle, and now he knows his enemy. 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


276 

“ God of heaven !” he exclaims, in the bitter anguish of his 
discovery, “ and can it be that 1 am doomed to perish by this 
most miserable of all my foes !” 

Once more he rushes against the mass above him, but this 
time with his head alone. He sinks down stunned upon the 
floor, and is aroused by the water around him. Inch by inch 
it rises. He knows the character of the stream. It will be 
above him, unless he is relieved., in less than an hour. The proud 
and reckless outlaw is humbled. He condescends to entreat 
the wretched creature to whom he owes his situation. He im- 
plores forgiveness — he promises reward. He begs — he threatens 
— he execrates. He is answered by a chuckle as before ; the 
Epileptic sits upon his coffin-lid, and the doomed man can hear 
his heels without, as they beat time with the winds and waters, 
against the sides of his tomb. Meanwhile, the water presses in 
upon him — he feels its advance around him — it is now about his 
knees — in another moment it is every where. It has gradually 
ascended the plane — it now spreads over the entire floor of his 
dungeon. He grasps his pistols, which he had laid down beside 
him, and applies their muzzles to his head. He is too late. 
They are covered with water, and refuse fire. His knife is 
no longer to be found. It had dropped from his right hand 
when he smote off the fingers of the left, and had probably 
rolled down the plane to the bottom, where, covered with water, 
it is impossible to recover it. Hope within, and hope from 
without, have failed him equally ; and, except in prayer, there 
is no refuge from the pang of death. But prayer is not easy to 
him who has never believed in the efficacy of its virtues. How 
can he pray to be forgiven, who has never been taught to for- 
give. He tries to pray ! The Epileptic without, as he stoops 
his ear, can catch the fragmentary plea, the spasmodic adjura- 
tion, the gasping, convulsive utterance, from a throat around 
which the waters are already wreathing with close and unre- 
laxing grasp. Suddenly the voice ceases — there is a hoarse 
murmur — the struggle of the strong man among the waters, 
which press through the crevices between the lid and the sides 
of the dungeon. As the convulsion ceases, the Epileptic starts to 
his feet, with a terror which he had not felt before ; and, looking 


THE GIANT’S COFFIN. 


277 


wildly behind him as he ran, bounded up the sides of the neigh- 
bouring hills. 

Thus ends our legend of the “ Giant’s Coffin.” Tradition does 
not tell us of the farther fortunes of Leda Houston. Some pages 
of the chronicle have dropped. It is very certain, however, that 
Arthur Holt, like Benedick, lived to be a married man, and died 
the father of several children — the descendants of some of whom 
still li\e in the same region. Of the “Coffin” itself, some frag, 
ments, and, it is thought, one of the sides, may be shown, but it 
was “ blown up” by the very freshet which we have described, 
and the body of Houston drifted down to the opposite shore. It 
was not till long after that Acker confessed the share which he 
had in the manner of his death and burial. 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


! S 


•o: ia'i’i : , v ) . ’* 

SERGEANT BARNACLE, 

OR THE RAFTSMAN OF THE EDISTO. 


Short be the shrift and sure the cord. — Scott. 


CHAPTER I. 

The pretty little settlement of Orangeburg, in South Carolina, 
v»as an old and flourishing establishment before the Revolution. 
It was settled, as well as the contiguous country, by successive 
troops of German Palatines, who brought with them all the sobei 
industry, and regular perseverance, characteristic of their coun- 
try. They carried the cultivation of indigo in Carolina to a de 
gree of perfection, on which they prospered, thriving, without 
much state, and growing great in wealth, without provoking the at- 
tention of their neighbours to the fact. To this day their de- 
scendants maintain some of these characteristics, and, in a time 
of much cry and little wool, when it is no longer matter of mor- 
tification for a vain people to confess a want of money, they are 
said to respond to the “I O U,” of their more needy acquaint-' 
ance, by knocking the head out of a flour barrel, and unveiling a 
world of specie, which would renovate the credit of many a 
mammoth bank. The good old people, their ancestors, were 
thrifty in other respects ; clean and comfortable in their houses ; 
raising abundance of pigs and poultry ; rich in numerous chil- 
dren, whom they reared up in good works and godliness, with 
quite as much concern, to say no more, as they addressed to 
worldly objects. They lived well — knew what surprising moral 
benefits accrue from a due attent o to creature comforts ; and, 
it they spent little money upon foreign luxuries, it was only be- 
cause they had learned tc domesticate so many of their own. 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


279 


Home, indeed, was emphatically their world, and they found a 
world in it. Frank hospitality, and the simple sorts of merri- 
ment which delight, without impairing the unsophisticated nature, 
were enjoyed among them in full perfection ; and, from Four 
Holes to Poplar Springs, they were emphatically one and the 
same, and a very happy people. 

Our present business lies in this region, at a period which we 
may state in round numbers, as just five years before the Revolu- 
tion. The ferment of that event, as we all know, had even then 
begun — the dispute and the debate, and the partial preparation — 
but the details and the angry feeling had been slow in reaching 
our quiet farmers along the Upper Edisto. The people were not 
good English scholars, preserving, as they did in many places, 
the integrity of the unbroken German. Here and there, it had 
suffered an English cross, and, in other places, particularly in the 
village, the English began to assert the ascendancy. But of 
newspapers they saw nothing, unless it were the venerable South 
Carolina Gazette, which did little more than tell them of the 
births, marriages and deaths in the royal family, and, at melan- 
choly intervals, of the arrival in Charleston of some broad- bot- 
tomed lugger from Bremen, or other kindred ports in Faderland. 
The events which furnished materials to the village publican and 
politician, were of a sort not to extend their influence beyond 
theft own ten-mile horizon. Their world was very much around 
them, and their most foreign thoughts and fancies still had a 
savour of each man’s stable-yard. They never interfered in the 
slightest degree with the concerns of Russia or Constantinople, and 
I verily believe that if they had happened to have heard that 
the Great Mogul were on his last legs, and knew the secret of 
his cure, they would have hesitated so long before advising him 
of its nature, that the remedy would come too date to be of any 
service. And this, understand me, not because of any lack of 
Christian bowels, but simply because of a native modesty, which 
made them reluctant to meddle with any matters which did not 
obviously and immediately concern themselves. They were, 
certainly, sadly deficient in that spirit of modern philanthropy 
which seems disposed to meddle with nothing else. Their hopes 
and fears, strifes and excitements, were all local. At worst a 


280 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN. . 


village scandal, or farm-yard jealousy — a squabble between two 
neighbours touching a boundary line, or cattle pound, which end- 
ed in an arbitration and a feast, in which cherry and domestic 
grape — by no means the simple juice of either — did the duty of 
peacemakers, and were thrice blessed accordingly. Sometimes 
— a more serious matter — the tall lad of one household would fail 
to make the proper impression upon the laughing damsel of an- 
other,- and this would produce a temporary family estrangement, 
until Time, that great consoler, would furnish to the injured 
heart of the sufferer, that sovereignest of all emollients — indif- 
ference ! Beyond such as these, which are of occurrence in the 
best regulated and least sophisticated of all communities, there 
were precious few troubles among our people of the North Edisto, 
which they could not easily overcome. 

But the affair which I am about to relate, was an exception to 
the uniform harmlessness and simplicity of events among them, 
and the better to make the reader understand it, I must take him 
with me this pleasant October evening, to a snug farm-house in 
the Forks of Edisto — a part of the country thus distinguished, as 
it lies in the crotch formed by the gradual approach of the two 
branches of Edisto river, a few miles above the spot of their final 
junction. Our farmer’s name is Cole. He is not rich, but not 
poor — one of those substantial, comfortable men of the world, 
who has just enough to know what to do with it, and }ust 
little enough to fancy that if he’ could get more he should 
know what to do with that also. His farm, consisting of five or 
six hundred acres, is a competence, but a small part of which is 
cleared and in cultivation. He has but two slaves, but he has 
two strapping sons, one of twelve, the other of fourteen, who 
work with the slaves, and upon whom, equally with them, he be- 
stows the horse-whip when needed, with as bountiful a hand as 
he bestows the hommony. But if he counts but precious little 
of gold and silver among his treasures, he has some treasures 
which, in those days of simplicity, were considered by many to 
be much more precious than any gold or silver. Like Jephthah, 
Judge of Israel, he has a daughter — nay, for that matter, he has 
two of them, and one of them, the eldest, is to be married this 
very evening. Philip Cole was no Judge of Israel, but he loved 


sergeant barnacle. 


281 


nis daughters not the less, and the whole country justified his 
love. The eyes of the lads brightened, and their mouths water 
ed at the bare mention of their names, and the sight of them gen- 
erally produced such a commotion in the hearts of the surround, 
mg swains, that, as I have heard averred a hundred times by 
tradition, they could, on such occasions, scarcely keep their feet. 
Keep their feet they could not, on such nights as the present, 
when they were not only permitted to see the lasses, but to dance 
it with them merrily. Dorothy Cole, the eldest, was as fine a spe- 
cimen of feminine mortality, as ever blossomed in the eyes of 
love ; rather plumpish, but so well made, so complete, so brightly 
eyed, and so rosily cheeked, that he must be a cold critic indeed, 
who should stop to look for flaws — to say, here something might 
be pared off, and here something might be added. Such fine 
women were never made for such foolish persons. But Margaret, 
the younger, a girl of sixteen, was unexceptionable. She was 
her sister in miniature. She was beautiful, and faultless in her 
beauty, and so graceful, so playful, so pleasantly arch, and ten- 
derly mischievous — so delightful, in short, in all her ways, that 
in looking upon her you ceased to remember that Five had fallen 
— you still thought of her in Eden, the queen of its world of 
flowers, as innocent and beautiful as the very last budding rose 
amongst them. At all events, this was the opinion of every body 
for ten miles rou id, from Frank Leichenstein, the foreign gentle- 
man — a German on his travels — to Barnacle Sam, otherwise 
Samuel Moore, a plain raftsman of the Edisto. 

The occasion, though one of gaiety, which brought the com- 
pany together, was also one of gloom. On this night the fair 
Dorothy would cease to be a belle. All hopes, of all but j.ie, 
were cut off by her lately expressed preference for a farmer 
from a neighbouring district, and the young men assembled to 
witness nuptials which many of them looked on with envy ar.d 
regret. But they bore, as well as they might, with the mortifi- 
cation which they felt. Love does not often kill in modern 
periods, and some little extra phlegm may be allowed to a c •im- 
munity with an .origin such as ours. The first ebullitions cfpmb 
lie dissatisfaction had pretty well worn off before the night of the 
wedding, and, if the beauty of the bride, when she stood up that 


282 


THE WIGWAM AN1) THE CABIN 


ni-ght to receive the fatal ring, served to reawake", the ancient 
flame in the breasts of any present, its violence was duly over- 
come in the" reflection that the event was now beyond recall, and 
regrets utterly unavailing. The frolic which succeeded, the 
good cheer, the uproar, and the presence of numerous other 
damsels, all in their best, helped in no small degree to lessen the 
discontent and displeasure of the disappointed. Besides, there 
was the remaining sister, Margaret, a host in herself, and so gay. 
and so good natured, so ready to dance and sing, and so success- 
ful in the invention of new modes of passing time merrily, that, 
before the bride disappeared for the night, she was half chagrined 
to discover that nobody — unless her new-made husband — now 
looked to where she stood. Her sway was at an end with thi 
hopes of her host of lovers. 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


283 


CHAPTER II. 

The revels were kept up pretty late. What with the ceremony, 
the supper, the dancing, and the sundry by-plays which are com- 
mon to all such proceedings, time passed away without the prop- 
er consciousness of any of the parties. But all persons present 
were not equally successful or equally happy. It was found, af- 
ter a while, that though Margaret Cole smiled, and talked, and play- 
ed, and danced with every body, there was yet one young fellow 
who got rather the largest share of her favours. What rendered 
this discovery particularly distressing was the fact that he was a 
stranger and a citizen. His name was Wilson Hurst, a genteel 
looking youth, who had recently made his appearance in the 
neighbourhood, and was engaged in the very respectable business 
of a country store. He sold calicoes and ribbons, and combs, 
and dimity, and the thousand other neat, nice matters, in which 
the thoughts and affections of young damsels are supposed to be 
quite too much interested. He was no hobnail, no coarse unman- 
nered clown ; but carried himself with an air of decided ton , as 
if he knew his position, and was resolute to make it known to 
all around him. His manner was calculated to offend the more 
rustic of the assembly, who are always, in every country, rather 
jealous of the citizen; and the high head which he carried, the 
petty airs of fashion which he assumed, and his singular success 
with the belle of the Forks, all combined to render the conceited 
young fellow decidedly odious among the male part of the assem- 
bly. A little knot of these might have been seen, toward the 
small hours, in earnest discussion of this subject, while sitting in 
the piazza they observed the movements of the unconscious pair, 
through a half opened window. We will not listen at present to 
their remarks, which we may take for granted were suffciently 
bitter ; but turn with them to the entrance, where they have dis- 
covered a new arrival. This was a large man, seemingly rather 


284 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN 


Doyond the season of youth, who was now seen advancing up 
the narrow avenue which led to the house. 

“ It’s Barnacle Sam !” said one. 

“ I reckon,” was the reply of another. 

“It’s he, by thunder!” said a third, “wonder what hell say 
to see Margaret and this city chap ? He’s just in time for it. 

They’re mighty close.” 

“ Reckon he’ll bile up again. Jest be quiet now, till he comes.” 

F rom all 'this we may gather that the person approaching is an 
admirer of the fair Margaret. His proximity prevented all fur- 
ther discussion of this delicate subject, .and the speakers at once 
surrounded the new comer. 

“Well, my lads, how goes it? demanded this person, in a 
clear, manly accent, as he extended a hand to each. “ Not too 
late, I reckon, for a fling on the floor , but l had to work hard for 
it, 1 reckon. Left Charleston yesteraay when the sun was on the 
turn ; but I swore I’d be in time for one dash with Margaret.” 

“ Reckon you’ve walked for nothing, then,” said one with f. 
significant shake of the head to his fellows. 

“ For nothing ! and why do you think so ?” 

“Well, I don’t know, but ! reckon Margaret’s better satisfied 
to sit down jest now. She don’t seem much inclined to foot it 
with aqy of us.” 

“ That’s strange for Margaret,” said the new comer ; “ but I’ll 
see how my chance stands, if so be the fiddle has a word to say 
in my behalf. She aint sick, fellows ?” 

“ Never was better — but go in and try your luck.” 

“ To be sure I will. It’ll be bad luck, indeed, when I set my 
heart on a thing, and walk a matter of seventy miles after it, if [ 
couldn’t get it then, and for no reason that I can see ; so here 
goes.” 

With these words, the speaker passed into the house, and was < 
soon seen by his companions — who now resumed their places by 
the window — in conversation with the damsel. There was a 
frank, manly something in the appearance, the face, carriage and 
language of this fellow, that, in spite of a somewhat rude exterior 
and coarse clothing, insensibly commanded one’s respect. It was 
very evident that those with whom he had spoken, had accorded 


SERGEANT BARNACLE 


285 


him theirs — that he was a favourite among them — and indeed, we 
may say, in this place, that he was a very general favourite. He 
was generous and good natured, bold, yet inoffensive, and so 
liberal that, though one of the most industrious fellows in the 
world, and constantly busy, he had long since found that his 
resources never enabled him to lay by a copper against a rainy 
day. Add to these moral qualities, that he was really a fine 
looking fellow, large and well made, with a deep florid complexion, 
black hair, good forehead and fine teeth, and we shall wonder to 
find that he was not entirely successful with the sex. That he 
was not an economist, and was a little over the frontier line of 
forty, were perhaps objections, and then he had a plain, direct 
way of speaking out his mind, which was calculated, sometimes, 
to disturb the equanimity of the very smoothest temper. 

It was perceived by his companions that Margaret answered 
him with some evident annoyance and embarrassment, while they 
beheld, with increasing aversion, the supercilious air of the 
stranger youth, the curl of his lips, the simpering, half-scornful 
smile which they wore, while their comrade was urging his 
claims to the hand of the capricious beauty. The application of 
the worthy raftsman — for such was the business of Barnacle Sam 
— proved unavailing. The maiden declined dancing, pleading 
fatigue. The poor fellow said that he too was fatigued, “ tired 
down, Miss Margaret, with a walk of seventy miles, only to have 
the pleasure of dancing with you.” The maiden was inexorable 
and he turned off to rejoin his companions. The immoderate 
laughter in which Margaret and the stranger youth indulged, 
immediately after Barnacle Sam’s withdrawal, was assumed by 
his companions to be at h' s expense. This was also the secret 
feeling of the disappointed suitor, but the generous fellow dis- 
claimed any such conviction, and, though mortified to the very 
heart, he studiously said every thing in his power to excuse the 
capricious girl to those around him. She had danced with several 
of them, the hour was late, and her fatigue was natural enough. 
But the malice, of his comrades determined upon a test which 
should invalidate all these pleas and excuses. The fiddle was 
again put in requisition, and a Virginia reel was resolved upon. 
Scarcely were the parties summoned to the floor, before Margaret 


286 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


made her appearance as the partner of young Hurst. Poor Bar. 
nacle walked out into the woods, with his big heart ready to break. 
It was generally understood fhat he was fond of Margaret, but 
how fond, nobody but himself could know. She, too, had been 
supposed willing to encourage him, and, though by no means a 
vain fellow, he was yet very strongly impressed with the belief 
that he was quite as near to her affections as any man he knew. 
His chagrin and disappointment may be imagined ; but a lonely 
walk in the woods enatled him to come back to the cottage, to 
which he was drawn by a painful sort of fascination, with a face 
somewhat calmed, and with feelings, which, if not subdued, were 
kept in proper silence and subjection. He was a strong-souled 
fellow, who had no small passions. He did not flare up and make 
a fuss, as is the wont of a peevish nature, but the feeling and 
the pain were the deeper in due proportion to the degree of 
restraint which he put upon them. His return to the cottage was 
the signal to his companions to renew their assaults upon his tem- 
per. They found a singular satisfaction in making a hitherto 
successful suitor partake of their own frequent mortifications. 
But they did not confine their efforts to this single object. They 
were anxious that Barnacle Sam should be brought to pluck a 
quarrel with the stranger, whose conceited airs had so ruffled the 
feathers of self-esteem in all of their crests. They dilated ac- 
cordingly on all the real or supposed insolences of the new comer 
— his obvious triumph — his certain success — and that unbearable 
volley of merriment, which, in conjunction with Margaret Cole, 
he had discharged at the retreating and baffled applicant for her 
hand. Poor Barnacle bore with all these attempts with great 
difficulty. He felt the force of their suggestions the more readily, 
because the same thoughts and fancies had already been travers- 
ing his own brain. He was not insensible to the seeming indig- 
nity which the unbecoming mirth of the parties had betrayed on 
his retiring from the field, and more than once a struggling devil 
in his heart rose up to encourage and enforce the suggestions 
made by his companions. But love was stronger in his soul than 
hate, and served to keep down the suggestions of anger. He 
truly ioved the girl, and though he felt very much like trouncing the 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


•J87 


presumptuous stranger, he subdued this inclination entirely on her 
account. 

£ ‘ No ! no ! my lads,” said he, finally, “ Margaret’s her own 
mistress, and may do as she pleases. She’s a good girl ®hnd 
a kind one, and if her head’s turned just now by this stranger, 
let’s give her time to get it back in the right place. She’ll come 
right, I reckon, before long. As for him, I see no fun in licking 
him, for that’s a thing to be done just as soon as said. If he 
crosses me, it’ll do then — but so long as she seems to have a li- 
king for him, so long I’ll keep my hands off him, if so be he’ll 
let me.” 

“ Well,” said one of his comrades, “ I never thought the time 
would come when Barnacle Sam would take so much from any 
man.” 

“ Oh hush ! Peter Stahlen ; you know I take nothing that 1 
don’t choose to take. All that know me, know what I am, and 
they’ll all think rightly in the matter ; and those that don’t know 
me may think just what they please. So good night, my lads. 
Pll take another turn in the woods to freshen me.” 


288 


THE WluWWl AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER 111 

We pass over much of the minor matter in this hisiui^. We 
forbear the various details, the visitings and wanderings, the do- 
ings of the several parties, and the scandal which necessarily kept 
all tongues busy for a season. The hope so confidently expressed 
by Barnacle Sam, that the head of his beauty, which had been 
turned by the stranger, would recover its former sensible position af- 
ter certain days, did not promise to be soon realized. On the con- 
trary, every succeeding week seemefi to bring the maiden and her 
city lover more frequently together ; to strengthen his assurance, 
and increase his influence over her heart. All his leisure time 
was consumed either at her dwelling or in rambles with her 
alone, hither and thither, to the equal disquieting of maid and 
bachelor. They, however, had eyes for nobody but one another 
— lived, as it were, only in each other’s regards, and, after a 
month of the busiest idleness in which he had ever been engaged, 
Barnacle Sam, in very despair, resumed his labours on the river 
by taking charge of a very large fleet of rafts. The previous inter- 
val had been spent in a sort of gentlemanly watch upon the heart 
and proceedings of the fair Margaret. The result was such as to 
put the coup de grace to all his own fond aspirations. But this effect 
was not brought about but at great expense of pride and feeling. 
His heart was sore and soured. His temper underwent a change, 
tie was moody and irritable — kept aloof from his companions, 
and discouraged and repulsed them when they approached him. 
It was a mutual relief to them and himself when he launched upon 
the river in his old vocation. But his vocation, like that of 
Othello, was fairly gone. He performed his duties punctually, 
carried his charge in safety to the city, and evinced, in its man- 
agement, quite as much skill and courage as before. But his 
performances were now mechanical — therefore carried on dog- 
gedly, and with no portion of his former spirit. There was now 
no catch of song, no famous shout or whistle, to be heard by the far 


SERGEANT BARNACLE 


289 


mer on the hank, as the canoe or the raft of Barnacle Sam round 
ed the headlands. There was no more friendly chat with the 
wayfarer — no more- kind, queer word, such as had made him the 
favourite of all parties before. His eye was now averted — his 
countenance troubled — his words few — his whole deportment, as 
well as his nature, had undergone a change ; and folks pointed 
to the caprice of Margaret Cole as the true source of all his mis- 
fortunes. It is, perhaps, her worst reproach that she seemed to 
behold them w T ith little concern or commiseration, and, exulting in 
the consciousness .of a new conquest over a person who seemed to 
rate himself very much above his country neighbours, she suffered 
herself to speak of the melancholy which had seized upon the 
soul of her former lover with a degree of scorn and irreverence 
which tended very much to wean from her the regard of the most 
intimate and friendly among her own sex. 

Months passed away in this manner, and but little of our rafts- 
man was to be seen. Meanwhile, the manner of Wilson Hurst 
became more assured and confident. In his deportment toward 
Margaret Cole there was now something of a lordly condescen- 
sion, while, in hers, people were struck with a new expression of 
timidity and dependence,- amounting almost to suffering and grief. 
Her face became pale, her eye restless and anxious, and her step 
less buoyant. In her father’s house she no longer seemed at 
home. Her time, when not passed with her lover, was wasted 
in the woods, and at her return the traces of tears were still to be 
seen upon her cheeks.. Suspicion grew active, scandal busied 
herself, and the young women, her former associates, were the 
first to declare themselves not satisfied with the existing condition 
of things. Their interest in the case soon superseded fheii 
charity ; 

“ For every wo a tear may claim, 

Except an erring sister’s shame.” 

Conferences ensued, discussions anJ declarations, and at length 
the bruit reached the ears of her simple, unsuspecting parents. 
The father was, when roused, a coarse and harsh old man. Mar- 
garet was his favourite, but it was Margaret in her glory, not 
Margaret in her shame. His vanity was stung, and in th^ inter- 

20 


290 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


view to which he summoned the unhappy girl, his anger, which 
soon discovered sufficient cause of provocation, was totally? with- 
out the restraints of policy or humanity. 

A traditionary account — over which we confess there hangs 
some doubt — is given of the events that followed. There were 
guests in the dwelling of the farmer, and the poor girl was con- 
ducted to a neighbouring outhouse, probably the barn. There, 
amid the denunciations of the father, the reproaches of the mo- 
ther, and the sobs, tears and agonies of the victim, a full acknowl- 
edgment was extorted of her wretched state. But she preserved 
one secret, which no violence could make her deliver. She 
withheld the name of him to whom she owed all her misfortunes. 
It is true, this name was not wanting to inform any to whom her 
history was known, by whom the injury was done ; but of all 
certainty on this head, derived from her own confession, they 
were wholly deprived. Sitting on the bare floor, in a state of 
comparative stupor, which might have tended somewhat to blunt 
and disarm the nicer sensibilities, she bore, in silence, the torrent 
of bitter and brutal invective which followed her developments. 
With a head drooping to the ground, eyes now tearless, hands 
folded upon her lap — self-abandoned, as it were — she was suflered 
to remain. Her parents left her and returned to the dwelling, 
having closed the door, without locking it, behind them. What 
were their plans may not be said ; but, whatever they were, they 
were defeated by the subsequent steps taken, in her desperation 
of soul, by the deserted and dishonoured damsel. 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


29 J 


CHAPTER IV. 

We still continue to report the tradition, though it does not ap- 
pear that the subsequent statements of the affair were derived from 
any acknowledged witness. It appears that, after the night had 
set in, Margaret Cole fled from the barn in which she had been 
left by her parents. She was seen, in this proceeding, by her lit- 
tle brother, a lad of eight years old. Catching him by the arm 
as they met, she exclaimed — “ Oh, Billy, don’t tell, don’t tell, if 
you love me!” The child kept the. secret until her flight was 
known, and the alarm which it occasioned awakened his own ap- 
prehensions. He described her as looking and speaking very 
wildly ; so much so as to frighten him. The hue and cry was 
raised, but she was not found for several hours after, and then — 
but we must not anticipate. 

It appears — and we still take up the legend without being able 
to show the authorities — it appears that, as soon as she could 
hope for concealment, under cover of the night, she took her way 
through unfrequented paths in the forest, running and walking, 
toward the store of Wilson Hurst. This person, it appears, kept 
his store on the road-side, some four miles from the village of 
Orangeburg, the exact spot on which it stood being now only con- 
jectured. A shed-room, adjoining the store, he occupied as his 
chamber. To this shed-room she came a little after midnight, 
and tapping beneath the window, she aroused the inmate. He 
rose, came to the window, and, without opening it, demanded who 
was there. Her voice soon informed him, and the pleading, piti- 
ful, agonizing tones, broken and incoherent, told him all her pain- 
ful story. She related the confession Wi.^h she had made to her 
parents, and implored him at once to take her in and fulfil those 
promises by which he had beguiled her to her ruin. The night 
was a cold and cheerless one in February — her chattering teeth 
appealed to his humanity, even if her condition had not invoked 
his justice. Will it be believed that the wretch refused her 1 


292 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


He seemed to have been under the impression that she was ac- 
companied by her friends, prepared to take advantage of his con- 
fessions ; and, under this persuasion, he denied her asseverations 
— told her she was mad — mocked at her pleadings, and finally 
withdrew once more, as if to his couch and slumbers. 

We may fancy what were the feelings of the unhappy woman. 
It is not denied to imagination, however it may be to speech, to 
conjecture the terrible despair, the mortal agony swelling in her 
soul, as she listened to the cold-blooded and fiendish answer to 
her poor heart’s broken prayer for justice and commiseration. 
What an icy shaft must have gone through her soul, to hearken 
to such words of falsehood, mockery and scorn, from those lips 
which had once pleaded in her ears with all the artful eloquence 
of love — and how she must have cowered to the earth, as if the 
mountains themselves were falling upon her as she heard his re- 
tiring footsteps- — he going to seek those slumbers which she has 
never more to seek or find. That was death — the worst death — 
the final death of the last hope in her doomed and desolated heart. 
But one groan escaped her — one gasping sigh — the utterance, we 
may suppose of her last hope, as it surrendered up the ghost — 
and then, all was silence ! 


sergeant barnacle. 


293 


CHAPTER y. 

That one groan spoke more keenly to the conscience of the 
miserable wretch within than did all her pleadings. The deep, 
midnight silence which succeeded wa i conclusive of the despair 
of the wretched girl. It not only said that she was alone, aban- 
doned of all others-— but that she was abandoned by herself. The 
very forbearance of the usual reproaches — her entire submission 
to her fate — stung and goaded the base deceiver, by compelling 
his own reflections, on his career and conduct, to supply the place 
of hers. He was young, and, therefore, not entirely reckless. 
He felt that he lacked manliness — that courage which enables a 
man to do right from feeling, even where, in matters of principle, 
he does not appreciate the supremacy of virtue. Some miserable 
fears that her friends might still be in lurking, and, as he could 
not conjecture the desperation of a big heart, full of feeling, burst- 
ing with otherwise unutterable emotions, he flattered himself with 
the feeble conclusion, that, disappointed in her attempts upon him, 
the poor deluded victim had returned home as she came. Still, 
his conscience did not suffer him to sleep. He had his doubts. 
She might be still in the neighbourhood — she might be swooning 
under his window. He rose. We may not divine his intentions. 
It may have been — and we hope so for the sake of man and hu- 
manity — it may have been that he rose repentant, and determined 
to take the poor victim to his arms, and do all the justice to her 
love and sufferings that it yet lay in his power to do. He went 
to the window, and leant his ear down to listen. Nothing reached 
him but the deep soughing of the wind through the branches, but 
even this more than once startled him with such a resemblance 
to human moaning that he shuddered at his place of watch. His 
window was one of those unglazed openings in the wall, such as 
are common in the humbler cottages of a country where the cold 
is seldom of long duration, and where the hardy habits of the peo. 
pie render them comparatively careless of those agents of comfort 


294 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


which would protect against it. It was closed, not very snugly, 
by a single shutter, and fastened by a small iron hook within. 
Gradually, as he became encouraged by the silence, he raised 
this hook, and, still grasping it, suffered the window to expand so 
as to enable him to take into his glance, little by little, the pros- 
pect before him. The moon was now rising above the trees, and 
shedding a ghastly light upon the unshadowed places around. 
The night was growing colder, and in the chill under which his 
own frame shivered, he thought of poor Margaret and her cheer- 
less walk that night. He looked down for her immediately be- 
neath the window, but she was not there, and for a few moments 
his eyes failed to discover any object beyond the ordinary shrubs 
and trees. But as his vision became more and more accustomed 
to the indistinct outlines and shadowy glimpses under which, in 
that doubtful light, objects naturally presented themselves, he 
shuddered to behold a whitish form gleaming fitfully, as if waving 
tn the wind, from a little clump of woods not forty yards from 
the house. He recoiled, closed the window with trembling 
nands, and got down upon his knees — but it was to cower, not to 
pray — and he did not remain in this position for more than a sec- 
ond. He then dressed himself, with hands that trembled too much 
to allow him, without much delay, to perform this ordinary office. 
Then he hurried into his shop — opened the door, which he as in- 
stantly bolted again, then returned to his chamber — half undressed 
himself, as if again about to seek his bed — resumed his garments, 
re-opened the window, and gazed once more upon the indistinct 
white outline which had inspired all his terrors. How long he 
thus stood gazing, how many were his movements of incertitude, 
what were his thoughts aird what his purposes, may not be said— r 
may scarcely be conjectured. It is very certain that every effort 
which he made to go forth and examine more closely the object 
of his sight and apprehensions, utterly failed — yet a dreadful fas- 
cination bound him to the window. If he fled to the interior and 
shut his eyes, it was only for a moment. He still returned to the 
spot, and gazed, and gazed, until the awful ghost of the unhappy 
girl spoke out audibly, to his ears, and filled his soul with the 
most unmitigated horrors. 


SERGEANT BARN ACLE. 


295 


CHAPTER VI. 

But the sound of horses’ feet, and hurrying voices, aroused him 
to the exercise of his leading instinct — that of self-preservation. 
Iiis senses seemed to return to him instantly under the pressure of 
merely human fears. He hurried to the opposite apartment, silently 
unclosed the outer door, and stealing off under cover of the woods, 
was soon shrouded from sight in their impenetrable shadows. 
But the same fascination which had previously led him to the fatal 
window, now conducted him into that part of the forest which con- 
tained the cruel spectacle by which his eyes had been fixed and 
fastened. Here, himself concealed, crouching in the thicket, he 
beheld the arrival of a motley crowd — white and black — old Cole, 
with all the neighbours whom he could collect around him and 
gather in his progress. He saw them pass, without noticing, the 
object of their search and his own attention — surround his dwell- 
ing — heard them shout his name, and finally force their way into 
the premises. Torches were seen to glare through the seams 
and apertures of the house, and, at length, as if the examination 
had been in vain, the party reappeared without. They gathered 
in a group in front of the dwelling, and seemed to be in consulta- 
tion. While they were yet in debate, the hoofs of a single horse, 
at full speed, were heard beating the frozen ground, and another 
person was added to the party. It did not need the shout with 
which this new comer was received by all, to announce to the 
skulking fugitive that, in the tall, massive form that now alighted 
among the rest, he beheld the noble fellow whose love had been 
rejected by Margaret for his own — Barnacle Sam. It is remark, 
able that, up to this moment, a doubt of his own security had not 
troubled the mind of Hurst ; but, absorbed by the fearful specta- 
cle which, though still unseen by the rest, was yet ever waving 
before his own spell-bound eyes, he had foregone all farther con- 
siderations of his own safety. But the appearance of this man, 
of whose character, by this time, he had full knowledge, had dis- 


296 


THE WIGWAM AN D THE CABIN 


pelled this confidence ; and, with the instinct of hate and fear, 
shuddering and looking back the while, he silently rose to his feet, 
and stealing off with as much haste as a proper caution would 
justify, he made his way to one of the landings on the river, where 
he found a canoe, with which he put off to the opposite side. For 
the present, we leave him to his own course and conscience, and 
return to the group which we left behind us, and which, by this 
time, has realized all the horrors natural to a full discovery of the 
truth. 

The poor gin. was found suspended, as we have already in part 
described, to the arm of a tree, but a little removed from the dwell- 
ing of her guilty lover, the swinging boughs of which had been 
used commonly for fastening horses. A common handkerchief, 
torn in two, and lengthened by the union of the parts, provided the 
fatal means of death* for the unhappy creature. Her mode of pro- 
cedure had been otherwise quite as simple as successful. She had 
mounted the stump of a tree which had been left as a horse-block, 
and which enabled her to reach the bough over which the kerchief 
was thrown. This adjusted, she swung from the stump, and*passed 
in a few moments — with what remorse, what agonies, what fears, 
and what struggles, we will not say — from the vexing world of 
time to the doubtful empire of eternity ! We dare not condemn 
the poor heart, so young, so feeble, so wronged, and, doubtless, so 
distraught ! Peace to her spirit ! 

It would be idle to attempt to describe the tumult, the wild up- 
roar and storm of rage, which, among that friendly group, seem- 
ed for a season to make them even forgetful of their grief. 
Their sorrow seemed swallowed up in fury. Barnacle Sam 
was alone silent. His hand it was that took down the lifeless 
body from the accursed tree — upon his manly bosom it was borne. 
He spoke but once on the occasion, in reply to those who proposed 
to carry it to the house of the betrayer. “ No ! not there ! not 
there !” was all he said, in tones low — almost whispered — yet so 
distinctly heard, so deeply felt, that the noisy rage of those around 
him was subdued to silence in the sterner grief which they express- 
ed. And while the noble fellow bore away the victim, with arms 
as fond, and a solicitude as tender, as if the lifeless form could still 
feel, and the cold defrauded heart could still respond to love, the 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


297 


violent hands of the rest applied fire to the dwelling of the sedu- 
cer, and watched the consuming blaze with as much delight aa 
they would have felt had its proprietor been involved within its 
flaming perils, Such, certainly, had he been found, would have 
been the sudden, and perhaps deserved judgment to which their 
hands would have consigned him. They searched the woods for 
him, but in vain. They renewed the search for him by daylight, 
and traced his footsteps to the river. The surrounding country 
was aroused, but, prompted by his fears, and favoured by his for- 
tune, he had got so completely the start of his enemies that he 
eluded all pursuit ; and time, that dulls even the spirit of revenge, 
at length served to lessen the interest of the event in the minds 
of most of the survivors. Months went by, years followed — the 
old man Cole and his wife sunk into the grave ; hurried prematurely, 
it was thought, by the dreadful history we have given ; and of all 
that group, assembled on the fatal night we have just described, 
but one person seemed to keep its terrible aspect forever fresh be- 
fore his eyes — and that was Barnacle Sam. 

He was a changed man. If the previous desertion and caprice 
of the wretched Margaret, who had paid so heavy a penalty for 
the girlish injustice which she had inflicted on his manly heart, 
had made him morose and melancholy, her miserable fate increas- 
ed this change in a far more surprising degree. He still, it is 
true, continued the business of a raftsman, but, had it not been for 
his known trustworthiness, his best friends and admirers would 
have certainly ceased altogether to give him employment. He 
was now the creature of a moodiness which they did not scrupk 
to pronounce madness. He disdained all sort of conference witl 
those about him, on ordinary concerns, and devoting himself to tin 
Bible, he drew from its mystic, and to him unfathomable, resour- 
ces, constant subjects of de famation and discussion. Its thousand 
dark prophecies became unfolded to his mind. He denounced the 
threatened wrath of undesignated ages as already at the door — 
called upon the people to fly, and shouted wildly in invocation of 
the storm. Sometimes, these moods would disappear, and, at such 
times, he would pass through the c row-d with drooping head and 
hands, the humbled and resigned victim to a sentence which seem- 
ed destined for his utter annihilation. The change in his physi- 


298 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


cal nature had been equally great and sudden. His hair, though 
long and massive, suddenly became white as snow ; and though 
his face still retained a partial fulness, there were long lines and 
heavy seams upon his cheeks, which denoted a more than com- 
mon struggle of the inner life with the cares, the doubts, and the 
agonies of a troubled and vexing existence. After the lapse of a 
year, the more violent paroxysms of his mood disappeared, and 
gave place to a settled gloom, which was not less significant than 
his former condition of an alienated mind. He was still devoted 
to religion — that is to say, to that study of religious topics, which, 
among ignorant or thoughtless people, is too apt to be mistaken 
for religion. But it was not of its peace, its diffusing calm, its 
noly promise, that he read and studied. His favourite themes 
were to be found among the terrible judgments, the fierce ven- 
geances, the unexampled woes, inflicted, or predicted, in the pro- 
phetic books of the Old Testament. The language of the prophets, 
when they denounced wrath, he made his own language ; and 
when his soul was roused with any one of these subjects, and 
stimulated by surrounding events, he would look the Jeremiah that 
he spoke — his eyes glancing with the frenzy of a flaming spirit — 
his lips quivering with his deep emotions — his hands and arms 
spread abroad, as if the phials of wrath were in them ready to be 
emptied — his foot advanced, as if he were then dispensing judg- 
ment — his white hair streaming to the wind, with that meteor- 
likeness which was once supposed to be prophetic of “ change, 
perplexing monarchs.” At other times, going down upon his 
rafts, or sitting in the door of his little cabin, you would see him 
with the Bible on his knee — his eyes lifted in abstraction, but his 
mouth working, as if he then busied himself in calculation of those 
wondrous problems, contained in the “ times and half times,” the 
elucidation of which, it is supposed, will give us the final limit 
accorded to this exercise of our human toil in the works of tho 
devil. 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


29.i 


CHAPTER VII. 

T was while his mind was thus occupied, that the ferment of 
colonial patriotism drew to a head. The Revolution was begun, 
and the clamours of war and the rattle of arms resounded through 
the land. Such an outbreak was the very event to accord with 
the humours of our morbid raftsman. Gradually, his mind had 
grasped the objects and nature of the issue, not as an event simply 
calculated to work out the regeneration of a decaying and impair- 
ed government, but as a sort of purging process, the great begin- 
ning of the end, in fact, by which the whole world was to be again 
made new. The exaggerated forms of rhetoric in which the ora- 
tors of the time naturally spoke, and in which all stump orators 
are apt to speak, when liberty and the rights of man are the 
themes — and what themes, in their hands, do not swell into these ? 
— happily chimed in with the chaotic fancies and confused thoughts 
which filled the brain of Barnacle Sam. In conveying his rafts 
to Charleston, he took every opportunity of hearing the great ora- 
tors of that city — Gadsden, Rutledge, Drayton and others — and 
Imbued with what he had heard, coupling it, in singular union, 
with what he had read — he proceeded to propound to his wonder- 
ing companions, along the road and river, the equally exciting 
doctrines of patriotism and religion. In this way, to a certain 
extent, he really proved an auxiliary of no mean importance to a 
cause, to which, in Carolina, there was an opposition not less se- 
rious and determined, as it was based upon a natural and not dis- 
creditable principle. Instead now of avoiding the people, and of 
dispensing his thoughts among them only when they chanced to 
meet, Barnacle Sam now sought them out in their cabins. Re- 
turning from the city after the disposal of his rafts, his course 
lay, on foot, a .natter of seventy miles through the country. On 
this route he loitered and lingered, went into by-places, and sought 
in lonely nooks, and “ every bosky bower,” from side to side,” 
the rustics of whom he either knew or heard. His own history, 


300 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABiM 


by this time, was pretty well known throughout the country, and 
he was generally received with opejt hands and that sympathy, 
which was naturally educed wherever his misfortunes were un- 
derstood. His familiarity with the Bible, his exemplary life, hia 
habits of self-denial, his imposing manner, his known fearlessness 
ot heart ; these were all so many credentials to the favour of a 
simple and unsophisticated people. But we need dwell on this 
head no longer. Enough, in this place, to say that, on the first 
threat of the invader against the shores of Carolina, Barnacle 
Sam leapt from his rafts, and arrayed himself with the regiment 
of William Thompson, for the defence of Sullivan’s Island. Of 
his valour, when the day of trial came, as little need be said. 
The important part which Thompson’s riflemen had to play at the 
eastern end of Sullivan’s* Island, while Moultrie was rending 
with iron hail the British fleet in front, is recorded in another 
history. That battle saved Carolina for two years, but, in the in- 
terregnum which followed, our worthy ra'ftsman was not idle. 
Sometimes on the river with his rafts, earning the penny which 
was necessary to his wants, he was more frequently engaged in 
stirring up the people of the humbler classes, by his own peculiar 
modes of argument, rousing them to wrath, in order, as he con- 
clusively showed from Holy Writ, that they might “ escape from 
the wrath to come.” This logic cost many a tory his life ; and, 
what with rafting, preaching and fighting, Barnacle Sam was as 
busy a prophet as ever sallied forth with short scrip and heavy 
sandal on the business of better people than himself. 

During the same period of repose in Carolina from the abso- 
lute pressure of foreign war, and from the immediate presence 
of the foreign enemy, the city of Charleston was doing a peculiar 
and flourishing business. The British fleets covering all the 
coast, from St. Augustine to Martha’s Vineyard, all commerce by 
sea was cut off, and a line of wagons from South, and through 
North Carolina, to Virginia and Pennsylvania, enabled the enter- 
prising merchants of Charleston to snap their fingers at the 
blockading squadrons. The business carried on in this way, 
though a tedious, was yet a thriving one ; and it gave many a 
grievous pang to patriotism, in the case of many a swelling 
tradesman, when the final investment of the Southern States com- 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


10 j 


pelled its discontinuance. Many a Charleston tory owed his de- 
fection from principle, to this unhappy turn in the affairs of local 
trade. It happened on one occasion, just before the British army 
was ordered to the South, that General Huger, then in command 
of a fine regiment of cavalry, somewhere near Lenud’s Ferry on 
the Santee, received intelligence which led him to suspect the- 
fidelity of a certain caravan of wagons which had left the city 
some ten or twelve days before, and was then considerably ad- 
vanced on the road to North Carolina. The intelligence which 
caused this suspicion, was brought to him by no less a person 
than our friend Barnacle Sam, who was just returning from one 
of his ordinary trips down the Edisto. A detachment of twenty 
men was immediately ordered to overtake the wagons and sift 
them thoroughly, and under the guidance of Barnacle, the de- 
tachment immediately set off. The wagons, eleven in number, 
were overhauled after three days’ hard riding, and subjected to 
as close a scrutiny as was thought necessary by the vigilant of- 
ficer in command. But it did not appear that the intelligence 
communicated by the raftsman received any confirmation. If 
there were treasonable letters, they were concealed securely, or 
seasonably destroyed by those to whom they were entrusted ; and 
the search being over, and night being at hand, the troops and 
the persons of the caravan, in great mutual good humour, agreed 
to encamp together for the night. Fires were kindled, the wag- 
ons wheeled about, the horses were haltered and fed, and all 
things being arranged against surprise, the company broke up into 
compact groups around the several fires for supper and for sleep. 
The partisan and the wagoner squatted, foot to foot, in circles the 
most equal and sociable, and the rice and bacon having been 
washed down by copious draughts’ of rum and sugar, of which 
commodities theCarolinas had a copious supply at the time of the 
invasion — nothing less could follow but the tale and the song, 
the jest and the merry cackle, natural enough to hearty fellows, 
under such circumstances of equal freedom and creature comfort. 
As might be guessed from his character, as we have described it, 
Barnacle- Sam took no part in this sort of merriment. He mixed 
with none of the several groups, but, with his back against a tree, 
with crossed hands, and chin upon his breast, he lay soundly 


302 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


wrapt in contemplation, chewing that cud of thought, founded 
upon memory, which is supposed to be equally sweet and bitter. 
In this position he lay, not mingling with any of the parties, per- 
haps unseen of any, and certainly not yielding himself in any 
way to the influences which made them temporarily happy. He 
was in a very lonely and far removed land of his own. He had 
not supped, neither had he drank, neither had he thirsted, nor 
hungered, while others indulged. It was one peculiarity of his 
mental infirmities that he seemed, whenever greatly excited by 
his own moods, to suffer from none of the animal wants of na- 
ture. His position, however, was not removed from that of the 
rest. Had his mind been less absorbed in its own thoughts 
— had he willed to hear — he might have been the possessor 
of all the good jokes, the glees and every thoughtless or 
merry word, which delighted those around him. He lay be- 
tween two groups, a few feet only from one, in deep shadow, 
which was only fitfully removed as some one of those around 
the fire bent forward or writhed about, and thus suffered the 
ruddy glare to glisten upon his drooping head or broad manly 
bosom. Qne of these groups — and that nearest him — was com- 
posed entirely of young men. These had necessarily found each 
other out, and, by a natural attraction, had got together in the 
same circle. Removed from the restraints and presence of theit 
elders, and after the indulgence of frequent draughts from the 
potent beverage, of which there was always a supply adequate to 
the purposes of evil, their conversation soon became licentious ; 
and, from the irreverent jest, they soon gave way to the obscene 
story. At length, as one step in vice, naturally and inevitably, — 
unless promptly resisted — impels another — the thoughtless repro 
bates began to boast of their several experiences in sin. Each 
strove to outdo his neighbour in the assertion of his prowess, and 
while some would magnify the number of their achievements, 
others would dilate in their details, and all, at the expense of poor, 
dependent woman. It would be difficult to say — nor is it impor- 
tant — at what particular moment, or from what particular cir- 
cumstance, Barnacle Sam was induced to give any attention to 
what was going on. The key-note which opened in his own soul 
all its dreadful remembrances of horror, was no doubt to be found 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


303 


in some one word, some tone, of undefinable power and import, 
which effectually comi landed his continued attention, even though 
it was yielded with loathing and against the stomach of his sense. 
He listened with head no longer drooping, eyes no longer shut, 
thought no longer in that fhr and foreign world of memory. 
Memory, indeed, was beginning to recover and have a present 
life and occupation. Barnacle Sam was listening to accents 
which were not unfamiliar to his ear. He heard one of the 
speakers, whose back was turned upon him, engaged in the narrative 
of his own triumphs, and every syllable which he uttered was 
the echo of a dreadful tale, too truly told already. The story 
was not the same — not identical in all its particulars — with that 
of poor Margaret Cole ; but it was her story. The name of the 
\%tim was not given — and the incidents were so stated, that, 
without altering the results, all those portions were altered which 
might have placed the speaker in a particularly base or odious 
position. He had conquered, he had denied his victim the only 
remedy in his povver — for was he to confide in a virtue, which he 
had been able to overcome ? — and she had perished by her own 
hands. This was the substance of his story ,; but this was not 
enough for the profligate, unless he could show how superior were 
his arts of conquest, how lordly his sway, how indifferent his 
love, to the misery which it could occasion ; a loud and hearty 
laugh followed, and, in the midst of the uproar, while every tongue 
was conceding the palm of superiority to the narrator, and his 
soul was swelling with the applause for which his wretched van- 
ity had sacrificed decency and truth, a heavy hand was laid upon 
his shoulder, and his eyes, turning round upon the intruder, en- 
countered those of Barnacle Sam ! 

“ Well, what do you want V ’ demanded the person addressed. 
It v/as evident that he did not recognize the intruder. How could 
he ? His own mother could not have known the features of Bar- 
nacle Sam, so changed as he was, from what he had been, by wo 
and misery. 

“ You ! I want you ! You are wanted, come with me !” 

The other hesitated and trembled. The eye of the raftsman 
was upon him. It was the eye of his master — the eye of fate. 
It was not in his power to resist it. It moved him whither it 


304 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


would. He rose to his feet. He could not help but rise. He 
was stationary for an instant, and the hand of Barnacle Sam 
rested upon his wrist. The touch appeared to smite him to the 
bone. He shuddered, and it was noted that his other arm was 
extended, a.s if in appeal to the group from which he had risen. 
Another look of his fate fixed him. He shrunk under the full, 
fierce, compelling glance of the other. He shrunk, but went 
forward in silence, while the hand of the latter was still slightlv 
pressed upon his wrist. 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


305 


CHAPTER VIH. 

Neve, was mesmeric fascination more complete. The rafts- 
man seemed to have full confidence in his powers of compulsion, 
ior he retained his grasp upon the wrist of the profligate, but a 
single moment after they had gone from the company, 

“ Come ! Follow ! ” said the conductor, when a few moments 
more had elapsed, finding the other beginning to falter. 

“ Where must I go ? Who wants me?” demanded the crimi- 
nal, with a feeble show of resolution. 

“ Where must you go — who wants you ; oh ! man of little 
faith — does the soldier ask of the officer such a question — does 
the sinner of his judge? of what use to ask, Wilson Hurst, when 
the duty must be done — when there is no excuse and no appeal. 
Come !” 

“ Wilson Hurst ! Who is it calls me by that name ? I will 
go no farther.” 

The raftsman who had turned to proceed, again paused, and 
stooping, fixed his keen eyes upon those of the speaker so closely 
that their mutual eyebrows must have met. The night was star- 
lighted, and the glances from the eyes of Barnacle Sam flashed 
upon the gaze of his subject, with a red energy like that of 
Mars. “ Come !” he said, even while he looked. “ Come, mis- 
erable man, the judgment is given, the day of favour is past, and 
’o ! the night cometh — the night is here.” 

“ Oh, now I know you, now I know you — Barnacle Sam !” ex- 
claimed Hurst, falling upon his knees. “ Have mercy upon me 
— have mercy upon me !” 

“ It is a good prayer,” said the other, “ a good prayer — the 
only prayer for a sinner, but do not address it to me. To the 
Judge, man, to the Almighty Judge himself! Pray, pray ! I will 
give you time. Pour out your heart like water. Let it run upon 
the thirsty ground. The contrite heart is blessed though it b*> 


306 


THE WIGWAM AMD THE CABIN. 


doomed. You cannot pray too much — you cannot pray enough, 
in the misery of the sinner is the mercy of the Judge.” 

44 And will you spare me ? Will you let me go if I pray V' 
demanded the prostrate and wretched criminal with eagerness. 

44 How can I ? I, too, am a sinner. I am not the judge. 1 
am but the officer commanded to do the will of God. He hah 
spoken this command in mine ears by day and by night. He has 
commanded me at all hours. I have sought for thee, Wilson 
Hurst, for seven weary years along the Edisto, and the Congaree 
and Santee, the Ashley, and other rivers. It has pleased God to 
weary me with toil in this search, that I might the better under- 
stand how hard it is for the sinner to serve him as he should be 
served ! 4 For 1 thy God am a jealous God !’ He knew how 

little I could be trusted, and he forced me upon a longer search 
and upon greater toils. I have wearied and I have prayed ; i have 
toiled and I have travelled ; and it is now, at last, that I have seen 
the expected sign, in a dream, even in a vision of the night. Oh, 
Father Almighty, I rejoice, I bless thee, that thou hast seen fit to 
bring my labours to a close — that i have at length found this 
favour in thy sight. Weary have been my watches, long have 
I prayed. I glad me that I have not watched and prayed vainly, 
and that the hour of my deliverance is at hand. Wilson Hurst, 
be speedy with thy prayers. It is not commanded that I shall 
cut thee off suddenly and without a sign. Humble thyself with 
speed, make thyself acceptable before the Redeemer of souls, for 
thy hour is at hand.” 

44 What mean you ?” gasped the other 

44 Judgment ! Death !” And, as he spoke, the raftsman looked , 
steadfastly to the tree overhead, and extended his arm as if to 
grasp the branches. The thought which was in his mind was j 
immediately comprehended by the instinct of the guilty man. He 1 
immediately turned to fly. The glimmering light from the fires .0 
of the encampment could still be seen fitfully flaring through 
the forest. 

r Whither would you go?” demanded the raftsman, laying his 
nand upon the shoulder of the victim. 44 Do you hope to fly from 
the wrath of God, Wilson Hurst ? Foolish man, waste not the 
moments which are precious. Busy thyself in prayer. Thou 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


307 


canst not hope for escape. Know that God hath sent me against 
thee, now, on this very expedition, after, as I have told thee, after 
a weary toil in search of thee for a space of seven years. Thou 
hast had ail that time for repentance while I have been tasked 
vainly to seek thee even for the same period of time. But late, 
a: I went out from the city, there met me one near Dorchester, 
who bade me set forth in pursuit of the wagon-train for the north, 
hut I heeded not his words, and that night, in a vision, I was yet 
farther commanded. In my weak mind and erring faith, me- 
thought I was to search among these wagons for a traitor to the 
good cause of the colony. Little did I think to meet with thee, 
Wilson Hurst. But when I heard thy own lips openly denounce 
thy sins ; when I heard thee boastful of thy cruel deed to her 
who was the sweetest child that ever Satan robbed from God’s 
blessed vineyard — then did I see the purpose for which I was sent 
— then did I understand that my search was at an end, and that 
the final judgment was gone forth against thee. Prepare thyself, 
Wilson Hurst, for thy hour is at hand.” 

“ l will not. You are mad ! I will fight, I will halloo to our 
people,” said the criminal, with more energetic accents and a 
greater show of determination. The other replied with a coolness 
which was equally singular and startling. 

“ I have sometimes thought that I was mad ; but now, that the 
Lord hath so unexpectedly delivered thee into my hands, I know 
that I am not. Thou may’st fight, and thou may’st halloo, but I 
cannot think that these will help thee against the positive com- 
mandment of the Lord. Even the strength of a horse avails not 
against him for the safety of those whom he hath condemned. 
Prepare thee, then, Wilson Hurst, for thy hour is almost up.” 

He laid his hand upon the shoulder of the criminal as he spoke. 
The latter, meanwhile, had drawn a large knife from his pocket, 
and though Barnacle Sam had distinguished the movement and 
suspected the object, he made no effort to defeat it. 

“ Thou art armed,” said he, releasing, as he spoke, his hold 
upon the shoulder of Hurst. “ Now, shalt thou see how certainly 
the Lord hath delivered thee into my hands, for I will not strive 
agains» thee until thou hast striven. Use thy weapon upon me. 
Lo ! J land unmoved before thee ! Strike boldly and see what 


308 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


thoi. shalt do, for I tell thee thou hast no hope. Thou art doom- 
ed, and I am sent this hour to execute God’s vengeance against 
thee.” 

The wretch took the speaker at his word, struck with tolerable 
boldness and force, twice, thrice upon the breast of the raftsman, 
who stood utterly unmoved, and suffering no wound, no hurt of 
any sort. The baffled criminal dropped his weapon, and scream- 
ed in feeble and husky accents for help. In his tremour and ti. 
midity, he had, after drawing the knife from his pocket, utterly 
forgotten to unclasp the blade. He had struck with the blunted 
handle of the weapon, and the result which was due to so simple 
and natural a cause, appeared to his cowardly soul and excited 
imagination as miraculous. It was not less so to the mind of Bar- 
nacle Sam. 

“ Did I not tell thee ! Look here, Wilson Hurst, look on this, 
and see how slight a thing in the hand of Providence may yield 
defence against the deadly weapon. This is the handkerchief by 
which poor Margaret Cole perished. It has been in my bosom 
from the hour I took her body from the tree. It has guarded my 
life against thy steel, though I kept it not for this. God has com- 
manded me to use it in carrying out his judgment upon thee.” 

He slipt it over the neck of the criminal as he spoke these 
words. The other, feebly struggling, sunk upon his knees. His 
nerves had utterly failed him. The coward heart, still more enfee- 
bled by the coward conscience, served completely to paralyze the 
common instinct of self-defence. He had no strength, no man- 
hood. His muscles had no tension, and even the voice of suppli- 
cation died away, in sounds of a faint and husky terror in h»s 
throat — a half-stifled moan, a gurgling breath — and 


SERGEANT BARNACLE 


309 


CHAPTER IX. 

When Barnacle Sam returned to the encampment he was 
alone. He immediately sought the conductor of the wagons, and, 
without apprising him of his object, led him to the place of final 
conference between himself and Hurst. The miserable man was 
found suspended- to a tree, life utterly extinct, the body already stiff 
and cold. The horror of the conductor almost deprived him of ut- 
terance. “ Who has done this V’ he asked. 

“ The hand of God, by the hand of his servant, which I am ! 
The judgment of Heaven is satisfied. The evil thing is removed 
from among us, and we may now go on our way in peace. I 
have brought thee hither that thou may’st see for thyself, and be 
a witness to my work which is here ended. For seven weary 
years have I striven in this object. Father, I thank thee, that at 
the last thou hast been pleased to command that I should behold 
it finished !” 

These latter words were spoken while he was upon his knees, 
at the very feet of the hanging man. The conductor, availing 
himself of the utter absorption in prayer of the other, stole away 
to the encampment, half-apprehensive that he himself might be 
made to taste of the same sharp judgment which had been admin- 
istered to his companion. The encampment was soon roused 
and the wagoners hurried in high excitement to the scene. The} 
found Barnacle Sam still upon his knees. The sight of their 
comrade suspended from the tree, enkindled all their anger. They 
laid violent hands upon his executioner. He offered no resistance, 
but showed no apprehension. To what lengths their fury would 
have carried them may only be conjectured, but they had found 
a rope, had fitted the noose, and in a few moments more they 
would, in all probability, have run up the offender to the same 
tree from which they had cut down his victim, when the timely 
appearance of the troopers saved him from such a fate. The 
esprit de corps came in seasonably for his preservation. It w$s 


310 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


in vain that the wagoners pointed to the suspended man — in vain 
that Barnacle Sam avowed his handiwork — “He is one of us,” 
said the troopers ; and the slightest movement of the others toward 
hostility was resented with a handling so rough, as made it* only 
a becoming prudence to bear with their loss and abuses as they 
best might. The wonder of all was, as they examined the body 
of the victim, how it was possible for the executioner to effect his 
purpose. Hurst was a man of middle size, rather stoutly built, 
and in tolerably good case. He would have weighed about one 
hundred and thirty. Barnacle Sam was of powerful frame and 
great muscle, tall and stout, yet it seemed impossible, unless en- 
dued with superhuman strength, that, unaided, he could have 
achieved his purpose; and some of the troopers charitably sur- 
mised that the wagoner had committed suicide : while the wagon- 
ers, in turn, hurried to the conclusion that the executioner had 
found, assistance among the troopers. Both parties overlooked 
the preternatural strength accruing, in such a case, from the ex- 
cited moral and mental condition of the survivor. They were not 
philosophers enough to see that, believing himself engaged upon 
the work of God, the enthusiast was really in possession of attri- 
butes, the work of a morbid imagination, which seemed almost to 
justify his pretensions to a communion with the superior world. 
Besides, they assumed a struggle on the part of the victim. They 
did not conjecture the influence of that spelj^ by which the domi- 
nant spirit had coerced the inferior, and made it docile as the 
squirrel which the fascination of the snake brings to its very jaws, 
in spite of all the instincts which teach it to know how fatal is the 
enemy that lurks beneath the tree. The imbecile Hurst, con- 
scious as it were of his fate, seems to have so accorded to the 
commands of his superior, as to contribute, in some degree, to his 
designs. At all events, the deed was done ; and Barnacle Sam 
never said that the task was a hard one. 

It was reserved for an examination of the body to find a full 
military justification for the executioner, and to silence the clam- 
ours of the wagoners. A screw bullet was found admirably folded 
in the knot of his neck kerchief, which, it seems, was not with- 
drawn from his neck when the kerchief of Margaret Cole was 
employed for a more deadly purpose. In this bullet was a note 


SERGEANT BARNACLE. 


3r> 

in cypher, addressed to Clinton, at New York, describing the ac- 
tual condition of Savannah, evidently from the hands of some one 
.n that quarter. In a few months after this period Savannah was 
in possession of the British. 

Barnacle Sam was tried for the murder of Hurst before a. civil 
tribunal, and acquitted on the score of insanity ; a plea put in for 
him, in bis own spite, and greatly to his mortification. He re- 
tired from sight, for a space after this verdict, and remained quiet 
until a necessity arose for greater activity On the part of the patriots 
at home. It was then that he was found among the partisans, al- 
ways bold and fearless, fighting and suffering manfully to the 
close of the war. 

It happened, on one occasion, that the somewhat celebrated 
Judge Burke, of South Carolina, was dining with a pleasant party 
at the village of Orangeburg. The judge was an Irish gentle- 
man of curious humour, and many eccentricities. He had more 
wit than genius, and quite as much courage as wisdom. The 
bench, indeed, is understood to have been the reward of his mili- 
tary services during the Revolution, and his bulls in that situation 
are even better remembered than his deeds in the other. But his 
blunders were redeemed by his humour, and the bar overlooked 
his mistakes in the enjoyment of his eccentricities. On the 
present occasion the judge was in excellent mood, and his cortv 
panions equally happy, if not equally humorous with himself 
The cloth had been removed, and the wine was in lively circula- 
tion, when the servant announced a stranger, who was no other 
than Barnacle Sam. Our ancient was known to the judge and 
to several of the company. But they knew him rather as the 
brave soldier, the successful scout, the trusty spy and courier, 
than as the unsuccessful lover and the agent of God’s judgment 
against the wrong doer. His reception was kind ; and the judge, 
taking for granted that he came to get a certificate for bounty 
lands, or a pension, or his seven years’ pay, or something of that 
sort, supposed that he should get rid of him by a prompt compli- 
ance with his application. No such thing. He had come to get 
a reversal of that judgment of the court by which he had been 
pronounceil insane. His acquittal was not an object of his con- 
cern. In bringing his present wish to the knowledge of the 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


312 

judge he had perforce to tell his story. This task we have al- 
ready sufficiently performed.. It was found that, though by no 
means obtrusive or earnest, the good fellow was firm in his appli- 
cation, and the judge, in one of his best humours, saw no diffi. 
oulty in obliging him. 

“Be plaised, gentlemen,” said he, “to fill your glasses. Our 
revision of the judgment in the case of our excellent friend, Ser- 
geant Barnacle, shall be no dry joke. Fill your glasses, and be 
raisonably ripe for judgment. Sit down, Sergeant Barnacle, sit 
down, and be plaised to take a drhap of the crathur, though you 
Lave no other crathur a drhap. It sames to me, gentlemen of 
the jury, that our friend has been hardly dealt with. To be found 
guilty of insanity for hanging a tory and a spy — a fellow actually 
bearing despatches to the enemy — sames a most extraordinary 
judgment ; and it is still more extraordinary, let me tell you, that 
a person should be suspected of any deficiency of sense who 
should lay hands on a successful rival. I think this hanging a 
rival out of the way an excellent expadient ; and the only mis- 
take which, it sames to me, our friend Sergeant Barnacle has 
made, in this business, was in not having traed him sooner than 
he did.” 

“ I sought him, may it please your honour, but the Lord did not 
deliver him into my hands until his hour had come,” was the in- 
terruption of Barnacle Sam. 

“ Ah ! I see ! You would have hung him sooner if you could. 
Gentlemen of the jury, our friend, the sergeant, has shown that 
he would have hung him sooner if he could. The only ground, 
then, upon which, it sames to me, that his sanity could have been 
suspected, is thus cleared up ; and we are made to say that our 
worthy friend was not deficient in that sagacity which counsels 
us to execute the criminal before he is guilty, under the good old 
rule that prevention is better than cure — that it is better to hang 
thirty rogues before they are proved so, rayther than to suffer one 
good man to come to avil at their hands.” 

It is needless to say that the popular court duly concurred with 
the judge’s humorous reversal of the former decision ; and Bar 
nacle Sam went his way, perfectly satisfied as to the removal of 
all stain from his sanity of mind. 


THOSE OLD LUNKS. 


3 


THOSE OLD LUNES! 

OR, WHICH IS THE MADMAN? 


# 

“ I am but mad, North — North-West: when the wind is southerly, I know 
a hawk from a handsaw.” — Hamlet. 


CHAPTER I. 

We had spent a merry night of it. Our stars had paled their 
not ineffectual fires, only in the daylight; and while Dan Phoebus 
was yet rising, “ jocund on the misty mountain’s top,” I was busy 
in adjusting my foot in the stirrup and mounting my good steed 
Priam,” to find my way by a close cut, and through narrow 
Indian trails, to my lodgings in the little town of C. — *, on the very 
borders of Mississippi. There were a dozen of us, all merry 
larks, half mad with wine and laughter, and the ride of seven 
miles proved a short one. In less than two hours, I was snugly 
snoozing in my own sheets, and dreaming of the twin daughter? 
of old Hansford Owens. 

Well might one dream of such precious damsels. Verily, they 
seemed, all of a sudden, to have become a part of my existence. 
They filled my thoughts, excited my imagination, and, — if it be 
not an impertinence to say any thing of the heart of a roving lad 
of eighteen, — then were they at the very bottom of mine. — Both of 
them, let me say, — for they were twins, and were endowed with 
equal rights by nature. I was not yet prepared to say what was 
the difference, if any, between their claims. One was fair, the 
other brown ; one pensive, the other merry as the cricket of 
Venus. Susannah was meek as became an Elder’s daughter; 
Emmeline so mischievous, that she might well have worried the 


i 


THE VVJGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


meekest of the saints in the calendar from his propriety and posi. 
tion. I confess, though I thought constantly of Susannah, I al- 
ways looked after Emmeline the first. She was the brunette — 
one of your flashing, sparkling, effervescing beauties, — perpetu- 
ally running over with exultation — brimfull of passionate fancies 
that tripped, on tiptoe, half winged, through her thoughts. She 
was a creature to make your blood bound in your bosom, — to 
take you entirely off your feet, and fancy, for the moment, that 
your heels are quite as much entitled to dominion as your head. 
Lovely too, — brilliant, if not absolutely perfect in features — she 
Kept you always in a sort of sunlight. She sung well, talked 
well, danced well — was always in air — seemed never herself to 
lack repose, and, it must be confessed, seldom suffered it to any 
body else. Her dancing was the crowning grace and glory. She 
was no Taglioni — not an Ellsler — I do not pretend that. But she 
was a born artiste. Every motion was a study. Every look 
was life. Her form subsided into the sweetest luxuriance of at- 
titude, and rose into motion with some such exquisite buoyancy, 
as would become Venus issuing from the foam. Her very affec 
tations were so naturally worn, that you at length looked for them 
as essential to her charm. I confess — but no ! Why should I 
do any thing so foolish ? 

Susannah was a very different creature. She was a fair girl 
—rather pale, perhaps, when her features were in repose. She 
jjad rich soft flaxen hair, and dark blue eyes. She looked rather 
than spoke. Her words were few, her glances many. She was 
not necessarily silent in silence. On the contrary, her very si- 
lence had frequently a significance, taken with her looks, that 
needed no help from speech. She seemed to look through you at 
a glance, yet there was a liquid sweetness in her gaze, that dis- 
armed it of all annoyance. If Emmeline was the glory of the 
sunlight — Susannah was the sovereign of the shade. If the song 
of the one filled you with exultation, that of the other awakened 
all your tenderness. If Emmeline was the creature for the 
dance, — Susannah was the wooing, beguiling Egeria, who could 
snatch you from yourself in the moments of respite and repose. 
For my part, 1 felt that I could spend all my mornings with the 
former, and all my evenings with the latter. Susannah with he* 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


315 


*arge, blue, tearful eyes, and few, murmuring and always gentle 
accents, shone out upon me at nightfall, as that last star that 
watches in the vault of night for the coming of the sapphire dawn. 

So much for the damsels. And all these fancies, not to say 
feelings, were the fruit of but three short days acquaintance with 
their objects. But these were days when thoughts travel merrily 
and fast — when all that concerns the fancies and the affections, 
are caught up in a moment, as if the mind were nothing but a 
congeries of instincts, and the sensibilities, with a thousand deli- 
cate antennae, were ever on the grasp for prey. 

Squire Owens was a planter of tolerable condition. He was a 
widower, with, these two lovely and lovable daughters — no more. 
But, bless you ! Mine was no calculating heart. Very far from 
it. Neither the wealth of the fa'ther, nor the beauty of the girls, 
had yet prompted me to think of marriage. Life was pleasant 
enough as it was. Why burden it ? Let well enough alone, say 
I. I had no wish to be happier. A wife never entered my 
thoughts. What might have come of being often with such dam- 
sels, there’s no telling; but just then, it was quite enough to 
dance with Emmeline, and muse with Susannah, and — vive la 
bagatelle ! 

I need say nothing more of my dreams, since the reader suffi- 
ciently knows the subject. I slept late that day, and only rose in 
time for dinner, which, in that almost primitive region, took place 
at 12 o’clock, M. I had no appetite. A herring and soda water 
might have sufficed, but these were matters foreign to the manor. 
I endured the day and headache together, as well as I could, 
slept soundly that night, with now the most ravishing fancies of 
Emmeline, and now the pleasantest dreams of Susannah, one or 
other of whom still usurped the place of a bright particular star in 
my most capacious fancy. Truth is, in those heydey days, my 
innocent heart never saw any terrors in polygamy. I rose a new 
man, refreshed and very eager for a start. I barely swallowed 
breakfast when Priam was at the door. While I was about to 
mount, with thoughts filled with the meek beauties of Susannah, 

I was arrested by the approach of no less a person than Ephiairr. 

Strong, the village blacksmith. 

“ You’re guine to ide, I see.” 


316 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


“Yes.” 

“ To Squire Owens, I reckon.” 

“ Right.” 

“ Well, keep a sharp look out on the road, for there’s news 
come down that the famous Archy Dargan has broke Hamilton 
gaol.” 

“ And who’s Archy Dargan?” 

“ What! don’t know Archy? Why, he’s the madman that’s 
been shut up there, it’s now guine on two years.” 

“ A madman, eh ?” 

“ Yes, and a mighty sevagerous one at that. He’s the cun- 
ningest white man going. Talks like a book, and knows how to 
get out of a scrape, — is jest as sensible as any man for a time, 
but, sudden, he takes a start, like a shying horse, and before you 
knows where you are, his heels are in your jaw. Once he blazes 
out, it’s knife or gun, hatchet or hickory — any thing he can lay 
hands on. He’s kill’d two men already, and cut another’s throat 
a’most to killing. He’s an ugly chap to meet on the road, so look 
out right and left.” 

“ What sort of man is he ?” 

“ In looks ?” 

“ Yes!” 

“ Well, I reckon, he’s about your heft. He’s young and tallish, 
with a fair skin, brown hair, and a mighty quick keen blue eye, 
that never looks steddily nowhere. Look sharp for him. The 
sheriff with his * spose-you-come-and-take-us’ — is out after him, 
but he’s mighty cute to dodge, and had the start some twelve hours 
afore they missed him.” 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


317 


CHAPTER II. 

The information thus received did not disquiet me. After the 
momentary reflection that it might be awkward to meet a madman, 
out of bounds, upon the highway, I quickly dismissed the matter 
from my mind. I had no room for any but pleasant meditations. 
The fair Susannah was now uppermost in my dreaming fancies, 
and, reversing the grasp upon my whip, the ivory handle of which, 
lined with an ounce or two of lqad, seemed to me a sufficiently 
effective weapon for the worst of dangers, I bade my friendly 
blacksmith farewell, and dashed forward upon the high road. A 
smart canter soon took me out of the settlement, and, once in the 
woods, I recommended myself with all the happy facility of youth, 
to its most pleasant and beguiling imaginings. I suppose I had 
ridden a mile or more — the story of the bedlamite was gone 
utterly from my thought — when a sudden turn in the road showed 
me a person, also mounted, and coming towards me at an easy 
trot, some twenty-five or^hirty yards distant. There was nothing 
remarkable in his appearance. He was a plain farmer or wood- 
man, clothed in simple homespun, and riding a short heavy chunk 
of an animal, that had just been taken from the plough. The 
rider was a spare, long-legged person, probably thirty years or 
thereabouts. He looked innocent enough, wearing that simple, 
open-mouthed sort of countenance, the owner of which, we 
assume, at a glance, will never set any neighbouring stream on 
fire. He belonged evidently to a class as humble as he was sim- 
ple, — but I had been brought up in a school which taught me that 
the claims of poverty were quite as urgent upon courtesy as those 
of wealth. Accordingly, as we neared each other, I prepared to 
bestow upon him the usual civil recognition of the highway 
What is it Scott says — I am not sure that I quote him rightly — 

“ When men in distant forests meet, 

They pass not as in peaceful street.” 


318 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


And, with the best of good humour, I rounded my lips into a smile, 
and got ready my salutation. To account somewhat for its effect 
when uttered, I must premise that my own personal appeal ance 
at this time, was rather wild and impressive. My face was full 
of laughter and my manners of buoyancy. My hair was very 
long, and fell in masses upon my shoulder, unrestrained by the 
cap which I habitually wore, and which, as I was riding under 
heavy shade trees, was grasped in my hand along with my riding 
whip. As the stranger drew nigh, the arm was extended, cap 
and whip lifted in air, and with free, generous lungs, I shouted 
— “good morning, my friend, — how wags the world with you 
to-day ?” 

The effect of this address was prodigious. The fellow gave no 
answer, — not a word, not a syllable — not the slightest nod of the 
head, — mats, tout au contraire. But for the dilating of his amazed 
pupils, and the dropping of the lower jaw, his features might have 
been chiselled out of stone. They wore an expression amounting 
to consternation, and I could see that he caught up his bridle with 
increased alertness, bent himself to the saddle, half drew up his 
horse, and then, as if suddenly resolved, edged him off, as closely 
as the woods would allow, to the opposite side of the road. The 
undergrowth was too thick to allow of his going into the wood at 
the spot where we encountered, or he certainly would have done 
so. Somewhat surprised at this, I said something, I cannot now 


recollect what, the effect of which was even more impressive upon 
him than my former speech. The heads of our horses were 
now nearly parallel — the road was an ordinary wagon track, say 
twelve feet wide — I could have brushed him with my cap as we 
passed, and, waving it still aloft, he seemed to fancy that such 
was my intention, — for, inclining his whole body on the off side 
of his nag, as the Cumanche does when his aim is to send an ar- 
row at his enemy beneath his neck — his heels thrown back, though 
spurless, were made to belabour with the most surprising rapidity, 
the flanks of his drowsy animal. And, not without some effect 
The creature dashed first into a trot, then into a canter, and 
finally into a gallop, which, as I was bound one way and he the 
other, soon threw a considerable space between us. 

“ The fellow’s mad r ” was my reflection and speech, as, wheel. 


THOSE OLD LUNES 


3ia / 


ing my horse half about, I could see him looking backward, and 
driving his heels still into the sides of his reluctant hack. The 
next moment gave me a solution of the matter. The simple 
countryman had heard of the bedlamite from Hamilton jail. My 
bare head, the long hair flying in the wind, my buoyancy of 
manner, and the hearty, and, perhaps, novel form of salutation 
with which I addressed him, had satisfied him that I was the per- 
son. As the thought struck me, I resolved to play the game out, 
and, with a restless love of levity which has been too frequently 
my error, I put the whip over my horse’s neck, and sent him for- 
ward in pursuit. My nag was a fine one, and very soon the space 
was lessened between me and the chase. As he heard the foot- 
falls behind, the frightened fugitive redoubled his exertions. He 
laid himself to it, his heels paddling in the sides of his donkey 
with redoubled industry. And thus I kept him for a good mile, 
until the first houses of the settlement grew visible in the dis- 
tance. I then once more turned upon the path to the Owens’, 
laughing merrily at the rare chase, and the undisguised conster- 
nation of the countryman. The story afforded ample merriment 
to my fair friends Emmeline and Susannah. “ It was so ridicu- 
lous that one of my appearance should be taken for a madman. 
The silly fellow deserved the scare.” On these points we were 
all perfectly agreed. That night we spent charmingly. The 
company did not separate till near one o’clock. We had fun and 
fiddles. I danced by turns with the twins, and more than once 
with a Miss Gridley, a very pretty girl, who was present. Squire 
Owens was in the best of humours, and, no ways loth, I was made 
to stay all night. 


320 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER III. 

A new day of delight dawned upon us with the next. Our 
breakfast made a happy family picture, which I began to think il 
would be cruel to interrupt. So snugly did I sit beside Emme- 
line, and so sweetly did Susannah minister ai the coffee urn, and 
so patriarchally did the old man look around upon the circle, 
that my meditations were all in favour of certain measures for 
perpetuating the scene. The chief difficulty seemed to be, in the 
way of a choice between the sisters. 

“ How happy could one be with either, 

Were t’other dear charmer away.” 

I turned now from one to the other, only to become more bewil- 
dered. The lively glance and playful remark of Emmeline, her 
love smiling visage, and buoyant, unpremeditative air, were tri- 
umphant always while I beheld them ; hut the pensive, earnest 
look of Susannah, the mellow cadences of her tones, seemed al- 
ways to sink into my soul, and were certainly remembered long- 
est- Present, Emmeline was irresistible ; absent, I thought 
chiefly of Susannah. Breakfast was fairly over before I came 
to a decision. We adjourned to the parlour, — and there, with 
Emmeline at the piano, and Susannah with her Coleridge in hand 
-her favourite poet — 1 was quite as much distracted as before. 
The bravura of the one swept me completely off my feet. And 
when I pleaded with the other to read me the touching poem of 
“ Genevieve ” — her low, subdued and exquisitely modulated ut- 
terance, so touching, so true to the plaintive and seductive senli- 
rrent, so harmonious even when broken, so thrilling even when 
most checked and hushed, was quite as little to be withstood. 
Like the ass betwixt two bundles of hay, my eyes wandered from 
one to the other uncertain where to fix. And thus passed the 
two first hours after breakfast. 

The third brought an acquisition to our party. We heard the 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


32 . 


trampling of horses’ feet in the court below, and all hurried to the 
windows, to see the new comer. We had but a glimpse of him — 
a tall, good-looking personage, about thirty years of age, with 
great whiskers, and a huge military cloak. Squire Owens met 
him in the reception room, and they remained some half hour or 
three quarters together. It was evidently a business visit. The 
girls were all agog to know what it was about, and I was morti- 
fied to think that Emmeline was now far less eager to interest me 
than before. She now turned listlessly over the pages of her mu- 
sic book, or strummed upon the keys of her piano, with the air of 
one whose thoughts were elsewhere. Susannah did not seem so 
much disturbed, — she still continued to draw my attention to the 
more pleasing passages of the poet ; but I could see, or I fancied, 
that even she was somewhat curious as to the coming of the stran- 
ger. Her eyes turned occasionally to the parlour door at the slight- 
est approaching sound, and she sometimes looked in my face with 
a vacant eye, when I was making some of my most favourable 
points of conversation. 

At length there was a stir within, a buzz and the scraping of 
feet. The door was thrown open, and, ushered by the father, the 
stranger made his appearance. His air was rather distingue. 
His person was well made, tall and symmetrical. His face was 
martial and expressive. His complexion was of a rich dark 
brown ; his eye was grey, large, and restless — his hair thin, and 
dishevelled. His carriage was very erect; his coat, which was 
rather seedy, was close buttoned to his chin. His movements were 
quick and impetuous, and seemed to obey the slightest sound, 
whether of his own, or of the voices of others. He approached 
the company with the manner of an old acquaintance ; certainly, 
with that of a man who had always been conversant With the best 
society. His ease was unobtrusive, — a polite deference invaria- 
bly distinguishing his deportment whenever he had occasion to 
address the ladies. Still, he spoke as one having authority. 
There was a lordly something in his tones, — an emphatic assu- 
rance in his gesture, — that seemed to settle every question ; and, 
after a little while, I found that, hereafter, if I played on any fid- 
dle at all, in that presence, it was certainly not to be the first. 
Emmeline and Susannah had ears for me no longer. There was 

22 


322 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


a something of impatience in the manner of the former whenevei 
I spoke, as if I had only interrupted much pleasanter sounds ; 
and, even Susannah, the meek Susannah, put down her Coleridge 
upon a stool, and seemed all attention, only for the imposing 
stranger. 

The effect upon the old man was scarcely less agreeable. Col. 
Nelson, — so was the stranger called — had come to see about the 
purchase of his upper mill-house tract — a body of land containing 
some four thousand acres, the sale of which was absolutely ne- 
cessary to relieve him from certain incumbrances. From the 
conversation which he had already had with his visitor, it ap- 
peared that the preliminaries would be of easy adjustment, and 
Squire Owens was in the best of all possible humours. It was 
nothing but Col. Nelson, — Col. Nelson. The girls did not seem 
to need this influence, though they evidently perceived it ; and, 
in the course of the first half hour after his introduction, I felt 
myself rapidly becoming de trop. The stranger spoke in passion- 
ate bursts, — at first in low tones, — with halting, hesitating man- 
ner, then, as if the idea were fairly grasped, he dilated into a tor- 
rent of utterance, his voice rising with his thought, until he start- 
ed from his chair and confronted the listener. I cannot deny 
that there was a richness in his language, a warmth and colour in 
his thought, which fascinated while it startled me. It was only when 
he had fairly ended that one began to ask what had been the prov- 
ocation to so much warmth, and whether the thought to which we 
had listened was legitimately the growth of previous suggestions. 
But I was in no mood to listen to the stranger, or to analyze what 
he said. I found my situation quite too mortifying — a mortification 
which was not lessened, when I perceived that neither of the two 
damsels said a word against my proposed departure. Had they 
shown but the slightest solicitude, I might have been reconciled 
to my temporary obscuration. But no! they suffered me to rise 
and declare my purpose, and made no sign. A cold courtesy 
from them, and a stately and polite bow from Col. Nelson, ac- 
knowledged my parting salutation, and Squire Owens attended 
me t3 the threshold, and lingered with me till my horse was got 
in readiness. As I dashed through the gateway, I could hear the 
rich voice of Emmeline swelling exultingly with the tones of hei 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


32 * 

piano, and my fancy presented me with the images of Col. Nel- 
son, hanging over her on one hand, while the meek Susannah on 
the other, was casting those oblique glances upon him which had 
so frequently been addressed to me. “ Ah ! pestilent jades,” I 
exclaimed in the bitterness of a boyish heart ; “ this then is the 
love of woman.” 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


3f;4 


CHAPTER IV. 

Chewing such bitter cud as this, I had probably ridden a good 
mile, when suddenly 1 heard the sound of human voices, and 
looking up, discovered three men, mounted, and just in front of 
me. They had hauled up, and were seemingly awaiting my ap- 
proach. A buzzing conversation was going on among them. 
“ That’s he !” said one. “ Sure ?” was the question of another. 
A whistle at my very side caused me to turn my head, and as I 
did so, my horse was caught by the bridle, and I received a se- 
vere blow from a club above my ears, which brought me down, 
almost unconscious, upon the ground. In an instant, two stout 
fellows were upon me, and busy in the praiseworthy toil of roping 
me, hands and feet, where I lay. Hurt, stung, and utterly con- 
founded by the surprise, I was not prepared to suffer this indignity 
with patience. I made manful struggle, and for a moment succeeded 
shaking off both assailants. But another blow, taking effect upon 
my temples, and dealt with no moderate appliance of hickory, 
left me insensible. When I recovered consciousness, I found my- 
self in a cart, my hands tied behind me, my head bandaged with 
a red cotton handkerchief, and my breast and arms covered with 
blood. A stout fellow rode beside me in the cart, while another 
drove, and on each side of the vehicle trotted a man, well armed 
with a double-barrelled gun. 

“ What does all this mean ?” I demanded. “ Why am I here? 
Why this assault ? What do you mean to do with me ?” 

“ Don’t be obstropolous,” said one of the men. “We don’t 
mean to hurt you ; only put you safe. We had to tap you on 
the head a little, for your own good.” 

“ Indeed !” I exclaimed, the feeling of that unhappy tapping 
upon the head, making me only the sorer at every moment — “ but 
will you tell me what this is for, and in what respect did my good 
require that my head should be broken ?” 

“ It might have been worse for you, where you was unbeknown,” 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


3J5 


replied the spokesman, — “ but we knowd your situation, and 
sarved you off easily. Be quiet now, and — ” 

“ What do you mean — what is my situation V ’ 

“ Well, I reckon we know. Only you be quiet, or we’ll have 
to give you the skin.” 

And he held aloft a huge wagon whip as he spoke. I had suf- 
ficient proof already of the unscrupulousness with which my 
companions acted, not to be very chary of giving them farther 
provocation, and, in silent misgiving, I turned my head to the op- 
posite side of the vehicle. The first glance in this quarter re- 
vealed to me the true history of my disaster, and furnished an am- 
ple solution of the whole mystery. Who should I behold but the 
very fellow whom I had chased into town the day before. The 
truth was now apparent. I had been captured as the stray bed- 
lamite from Hamilton jail. It was because of this that I had been 
“tapped on the head — only for my own good.” As the conjec- 
ture flashed upon me, I could not avoid laughter, particularly as 
I beheld the still doubtful and apprehensive visage of the man be- 
side me. My laughter had a very annoying effect upon all par- 
ties. It was a more fearful sign than my anger might have been. 
The fellow whom I had scared, edged a little far'her from the 
cart, and the man who had played spokesman, and upon w’hom 
the whole business seemed to have devolved, now shook his whip 
again — “ None of that, my lad,” said he, “ or I’ll have to bruise 
you again. Don’t be obstroplous.” 

“You’ve taken me up for a madman, have you ?” said I. 

“ Well, I reckon you ought to know what you are. There’s 
no disputing it.” 

“ And this silly fellow has made you believe it ?” 

“ Reckon !” 

“ You’ve made a great mistake.” 

“Don’t think it.” 

“ But you have : Only take me to C , and I’ll prove it by 

General Cocke, himself, or Squire Humphries, or any body in 
the town.” 

“No! no! my friend, — that cock won’t fight. We aint mis 
doubting at all, but you’re the right man. You answer all the 
descriptions, and Jake Sturgis here, has made his affidavy that 


326 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


you chased him, neck and neck, as mad as any blind puppy in a 
dry September, for an hour by sun yesterday. We don’t want 
no more proof.” 

“ And where do you mean to carry me ?” I enquired, with 
all the coolness I was master of. 

“ Well, we’ll put you up in a pen we’ve got a small piece 
from here ; and when the sheriff comes, he’ll take you back to 
your old quarters at Hamilton jail, where I reckon they’ll fix you 
a little tighter than they had you before. We’ve sent after the 
sheriff, and his 1 spose-you-come-and-take-us,’ and I reckon they’l) 
be here about san-down.” 


THOSE OLD LUKES. 


3T? 


CHAPTER Y. 

Here was a “ sitiation” indeed. Burning with indignation, 1 
was yet sufficiently master of myself to see that any ebullition of 
rage on my part, would only confirm the impressions which they 
had received of my insanity. I said little therefore, and that lit- 
tle was confined to an attempt to explain the chase of yesterday, 
which Jake Sturgis had made the subject of such a mischievous 
“affidavy.” But as I could not do this without laughter, I in- 
curred the danger of the whip. My laugh was ominous. — Jak^ 
edged off once more to the roadside ; the man besiae me, got his 
bludgeon in readiness, and the potent wagon whip of the leader 
of the party, was uplifted in threatening significance. Laughter 
was clearly out of the question, and it naturally ceased on my 
part, as I got in sight of the “pen” in which I was to be kept se- 
cure. This structure is one well known to the less civilized re- 
gions of the country. It is a common place of safe keeping in 
the absence of gaols and proper officers. It is called technically 
a “ bull pen,” and consists of huge logs, roughly put together, 
crossing at right angles, forming a hollow square, — the logs too 
massy to be removed, and the structure too high to be climbed, 
particularly if the prisoner should happen to be, like myself, fair- 
ly tied up hand and foot together. I relucted terribly at being 
put into this place. I pleaded urgently, struggled fiercely, and 
was thrust in neck and heels without remorse ; and, in sheer hope- 
lessness and vexation, I lay with my face prone to the earth, and 
half buried among the leaves, weeping, I shame to confess it, the 
bitter tears of impotence and mortification. 

Meantime, the news of my capture went through the country ; 
— not my capture, mark me, but that of the famous madman, 
Archy Dargan, who had broke Hamilton jail. This was an 
vent, and visitors began to collect. My captors, who kept watch 
>n the outside of my den, had their hands full in answering ques- 
tions. Man, woman and child, Squire and ploughboy, and, finally, 


328 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


dames and damsels, accumulated around me, and such a throng 
of eyes as pierced the crevices of my log dungeon, to see the 
strange monster by whom they were threatened, now disarmed of 
his terrors, were, — to use the language of one of my keepers — “ a 
power to calkilate.” This was not the smallest part of my an* 
noyance. The logs were sufficiently far apart to suffer me to 
see and to be seen, and I crouched closer to my rushes, , and buried 
my face more thoroughly than ever, if possible, to screen my dis- 
honoured visage from their curious scrutiny. This conduc 
mightily offended some of the visitors. 

“ I can’t see his face,” said one. 

“ Stir him with a long pole !” — and I was greatly in danger of 
being treated as a surly bear, refusing to dance for his keeper; 
since one of mine seemed very much disposed to gratify the spec- 
tator, and had actually begun sharpening the end of a ten foot 
hickory, for the purpose of pricking me into more sociableness. 
He was prevented from carrying his generous design into effect 
by the suggestion of one of his companions. 

“ Better don’t, Bosh ; if ever he should git out agen, he’d puf 
his ear mark upon you.” 

“ Reckon you’re right,” was the reply of the other, as he laid 
his rod out of sight. 

Meanwhile, the people came and went, each departing visitor 
sending others. A couple of hours might have elapsed leaving 
me in this humiliating situation, chained to the stake, the beast of 
a bear garden, with fifty greedy and still dissatisfied eyes upon me. 
Of these, fully one fourth were of the tender gender ; some pitied 
me, some laughed, and all congratulated themselves that I was 
safely laid by the heels, incapable of farther mischief. It was not 
the most agreeable part of their remarks, to find that they all uni- 
versally agreed that I was a most frightful looking object. Wheth- 
er they saw my face or not, they all discovered that I glared 
frightfully upon them, and I heard one or two of them ask in un- 
der tones, “ did you see his teeth — how sharp !” I gnashed them 
with a vengeance all the while, you may be sure. 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


329 


CHAPTER VI. 

The last and worst humiliation was yet to come — that which 
put me for a long season out of humour with all human and wo- 
man nature. Conscious of an unusual degree of bustle without, I 
was suddenly startled by sounds of a voice that had been once 
pleasingly familiar. It was that of a female, a clear, soft, trans- 
parent sound, which, till this moment, had never been associated 
in my thoughts with any thing but the most perfect of all mortal 
melodies. It was now jangled harsh, like “ sweet bells out of 
tune.” The voice was that of Emmeline. “ Good heavens !” I 
exclaimed to myself — £ can she be here ?” In another instant, I 
heard that of Susannah — the meek Susannah, — she too was among 
the curious to examine the features of the bedlamite, Archy Dar- 
gan.” 

“ Dear me,” said Emmeline, “ is he in that place ?” 

“ What a horrid place !” said Susannah. 

“ It’s the very place for such a horrid creature,” responded 
Emmeline. 

“ Can’t he get out, papa ?” said Susannah. “ Isn’t a mad per- 
son very strong ?” 

“ Oh ! don’t frighten a body, Susannah, before we have had a 
peep,” cried Emmeline ; “ I declare I’m afraid to look — do, Col. 
Nelson, peep first and see if there’s no danger.” 

And there was the confounded Col. Nelson addressing his eyes 
to my person, and assuring his fair companions, my Emmeline, 
my Susannah, that there was no sort of danger, — that I was evi- 
dently in oner of my fits of apathy. 

“ The paroxysm is off for the moment, ladies, — and even if he 
were violent, it is impossible that he should break through the 
pen. He seems quite harmless — you may look with safety.” 

“ Yes, he’s mighty quiet now, Miss,” — said one of my keepers 
encouragingly, “ but it’s all owing to a close sight of my whip. 
He was a-guine to be obstroplous more than once, when I shook 


330 


TIIE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


it over him — he’s usen to it, I reckon. You can always tell when 
the roaring fit is coming on — for he breaks out in such a dreadful 
sort of laughing.” 

“ Ha ! Ha ! — he laughs does he — Ha ! Ha !” such was the 
somewhat wild interruption offered by Col. Nelson himself. If my 
laugh produced such an effect upon my keeper, his had a very dis- 
quieting effect upon me. But, the instinctive conviction that 
Emmeline and Susannah were now gazing upon me, prompted 
me with a sort of fascination, to lift my head and look for them. 
I saw their eyes quite, distinctly. Bright treacheries ! 1 could 

distinguish between them — and there were those of Col. Nelson 
beside them — the three persons evidently in close propinquity. 

“ What a dreadful looking creature!” said Susannah. 

“ Dreadful !” said Emmeline, “ I see nothing so dreadful in 
him. He seems tame enough. I’m sure, if that’s a madman, I 
don’t see why people should be afraid of them.” 

“ Poor man, how bloody he is !” said Susannah. 

“ We had to tap him, Miss, a leetle upon the head, to bring l^im 
quiet. He’s tame and innocent now, but you should see him 
when he’s going to break out. Only just hear him when he 
laughs.” 

I could not resist the temptation. The last remark of my keep- 
er fell on my ears like a suggestion, and suddenly shooting up my 
head, and glaring fiercely at the spectators, I gave them a yell of 
laughter as terrible as I could possibly make it. 

“ Ah !” was the shriek of Susannah, as she dashed back from 
the logs. Before the sounds had well ceased, they were echoed 
from without, and in more fearful and natural style from the prac- 
tised lungs of Col. Nelson. His yells following mine, were 
enough to startle even me. 

“ What !” he cried, thrusting his fingers through the crevice, 
“ you would come out, would you, — you would try.your strength 
with mine. Let him out, — let him out ! I am ready for him, 
breast to breast, man against man, tooth and nail, forever and for- 
ever. You can laugh too, but — Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! — what do you say 
to that ? Shut up, shut up, and be ashamed of yourself. Ha ! 
Ha ! Ha !” 

There was a sensation without. I could see that Emmeline 


THOSE OLD LUNES. 


331 


recoiled from the side of her companion. He had thrown himself 
into an attitude, had grappled the logs of my dungeon, and 
exhibited a degree of strange emotion, which, to say the least, 
took every body by surprise. My chief custodian was the first la 
speak. 

“Don’t be scared, Mr. — there’s no danger — he can’t get out.” 

“ But I say let him out — let him out. Look at him, ladies — 
look at him. You shall see what a madman is — you shall see 
how I can manage him. Hark ye, fellow,- — out with him at once. 
Give me your whip — I know all about his treatment. You shall 
see me work him. I’ll manage him, — I’ll fight with him, and 
laugh with him too — how we shall laugh — Ha ! Ha ! Ha !” 

His horrible laughter, — for it was horrible — was cut short by 
an unexpected incident. He was knocked down as suddenly as 
I had been, with a blow from behind, to the astonishment of all 
around. The assailant was the sheriff of Hamilton jail, who had 
just arrived and detected the fugitive, Archy Dargan — the most 
cunning of all bedlamites, as he afterwards assured me, — in the 
person of the handsome Col. Nelson. 

“ I knew the scamp by his laugh — I heard it half a mile,” said 
the sheriff, as he planted himself upon the bosom of the prostrate 
man, and proceeded to leash him in proper order. Here was a 
concatenation accordingly. 

“ Who hev’ I got in the pen ?” was the sapient inquiry of my 
captor — the fellow whose whip had been so potent over my imagi- 
nation. 

“ Who ? Have you any body there ?” demanded the sheriff. 

“ I reckon ! — We cocht a chap that Jake made affidavy was 
the madman.” 

“ Let him out then, and beg the man’s pardon. I’ll answer for 
Archy Dargan.” 

My appearance before the astonished damsels was gratifying to 
neither of us. I was covered with mud and blood, — and they 
with confusion. 

“ Oh ! Mr. , how could we think it was you, such a 

fright as they’ve made you.” 

Such was Miss Emmeline’s speech after her recovery. Susan- 
nah’s was quite as characteristic. 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


m 

“I am so very sorry, Mr. .” 

“ Spare your regrets, ladies,” I muttered ungraciously, as 1 
leapt on my horse. “ I wish you a very pleasant morning.” 

“ Ha ! Ha ! Ha !” yelled the bedlamite, writhing and bounding 
in his leash — “ a very pleasant morning.” 

The damsels took to their heels, and went off in one direction 
quite as fast as I did in the other. Since that day, dear reader, I 
have never suffered myself to scare a fool, or to fall in love with 
a pair of twins ; and if ever I marry, take my word for it, the 
happy woman shall neither be a Susannah, nor an Emmeline. 


THE LAZY CROW. 


5.1.1 


THE LAZY CROW. 

A STORY OF THE CORNFIELD 


CHAPTER I. 

We were on the Savannah river when the corn was coming 
up ; at the residence of one of those planters of the middle coun- 
try, the staid, sterling, old-time gentlemen of the last century, 
the stock of which is so rapidly diminishing. The season was 
advanced and beautiful ; the flowers every where in odour, and 
all things promised well for the crops of the planter. Hopes and 
seed, however, set out in March and April, have a long time to 
go before ripening, and when I congratulated Mr. Carrington on 
the prospect before him, he would shake his head, and smile and 
say, in a quizzical inquiring humour, “ wet or dry, cold or warm, 
which shall it be ? what season shall we have? Tell me that, 
and I will hearken with more confidence to your congratulations. 
We can do no more than plant the seed, scuffle with the grass, 
say our prayers, and leave the rest to Him without whose bless- 
ing no labour can avail.” 

“ There is something more to be done, and of scarcely less im- 
portance it would seem, if I may judge from the movements of 
Scipio — kill or keep off the crows. ” 

Mr. Carrington turned as I spoke these words ; we had just left 
the breakfast table, where we had enjoyed all the warm comforts 
of hot rice-waffles, journey-cake, and glowing biscuit, not to 
speak of hominy and hoe-cake, without paying that passing ac- 
knowledgment to dyspeptic dangers upon which modern physicians 
so earnestly insist. Scipio, a sleek, well-fed negro, with a round, 
good-humoured face, was busy in the corner of the apartment ; 


334 


THE WIGWAM AND 1IIE CABIN. 


one hand employed in grasping a goodly fragment of bread, half- 
concealed in a similar slice of fried bacon, whicTThe had just re- 
ceived from his young mistress ; — while the other carefully select- 
ed from the corner, one of half-a-dozen double-barrelled guns, 
which he was about to raise to his shoulder, when my remark 
turned the eye of his master upon him. 

“ How now, Scipio, what are you going to shoot ?” was the in- 
quiry of Mr. Carrington. 

“ Crow, sa, ; dere’s a dratted ugly crow dat’s a-troubling me, 
and my heart’s set for kill ’um.” 

“ One only ; why Scip, you’re well off if you hav’n’t a hun- 
dred. Do they trouble you very much in the pine land field ?” 

“ Dare’s a plenty, sa ; but dis one I guine kill, sa, he’s wuss 
more nor all de rest. You hab good load in bote barrel, mossa ?” 

“Yes, but small shot only. Draw the loads, Scip, and put in 
some of the high duck ; you’ll find the bag in the closet. These 
crows will hardly let you get nigh enough, Scipio, to do them any 
mischief with small shot.” 

“ Ha! but I will trouble dis black rascal, you see, once I set 
eye ’pon um. He’s a cussed ugly nigger, and he a’n’t feared 
[ can git close ’nough, mossa.” 

The expression of Scipio’s face, while uttering the brief dec- 
laration of war against the innumerable, and almost licensed pi- 
rates of the cornfield, or rather against one in particular, was 
full of the direst hostility. His accents were not less marked by 
malignity, and could not fail to command our attention. 

“ Why, you seem angry about it, Scipio ; this crow must be 
one of the most impudent of his tribe, and a distinguished char- 
acter.” 

“ I’ll ’stinguish um, mossa, — you’ll see. Jist as you say, he’s 
a mos’ impudent nigger. He no feared of me ’t all. When I 
stan’ and look ’pon him, he stan’ and look ’pon me. I tak’ up 
dirt and stick, and trow at um, but. he no scare. When I chase 
um, he fly dis way, he fly dat, but he nebber gone so far, but he 
can turn round and cock he tail at me, jist when he see me ’top. 
He’s a mos’ cussed sassy crow, as ebber walk in a cornfield.” 

“But Scip, you surprise me. You don’t mean to say that it is 
one crow in particular that annoys you in this manner/’ 


THE LAZY CROW 


335 


“De same one ebbery day, mossa ; de same one;” was the reply. 

“ How long has this been r* 

“ Mos’ a week now, massa ; ebber sence las’ Friday.” 

“ Indeed ! but what makes you think this troublesome crow al- 
ways the same one, Scipio ? Do you think the crows never 
change their spies ?” 

“ Enty, I know um, mossa ; dis da same crow been trouble me, 
ebber since las’ Friday. He’s a crow by hese’f, mossa. I 
nebber see him wid t’oder crows he no hab complexion ob t’oder 
crow, yet he’s crow, all de same.” 

“ Is he not black like all his tribe ?” 

“ Yes, he black, but he ain’t black like de t’oder ones. Dere’s 
someting like a grey dirt ’pon he wing. He’s black, but he no 
pot black — no jet ; — he hab dirt, I tell you, mossa, on he wing, 
jis’ by de skirt ob he jacket — j is yer and he lifted the lappel 
of his master’s coat as he concluded his description of the bird 
that troubled him. 

‘•'A strange sort of crow indeed, Scipio, if he answers your 
description. Should you kill him, be sure and bring him to me 
I can scarcely think him a crow.” 

“ How, no crow, mossa ? Enty, I know crow good as an} 
body 1 He’s a crow, mossa, — a dirty, black nigger ob a crow 
and I’ll shoot um t’rough he head, sure as a gun. He trouble 
me too much ; look hard ’pon me as ef you bin gib um wages 
for obersee. Nobody ax um for watch me, see wha’ I do ! 
Who mak’ him obersheer ?” 

“ A useful crow, Scipio; and now I think of it, it might be just 
as well that you shouldn’t shoot him. If he does such good ser- 
vice in the cornfield as to see that you all do your work, I’ll 
make him my overseer in my absence !” 

This speech almost astounded the negro. He dropped the butt 
of the gun upon the floor, suffered the muzzle to rest in the hol- 
low of his . arm, and thus baldly expostulated with his master 
against so strange a decision. 

“ No shoot um, mossa ; no shoot crow daj’s a-troubling you, 
Dickens, mossa, dat’s too foolish now, I mus’ tell you ; and 
to tell you de blessed trut’, ef you don’t shoot dis lazv crow 
I tell you ob, or le’ me shoot ’um, one or t’oder, den you 


336 THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 

mils’ take Scip out ob de cornfiel’, and put ’noder nigger in 
he place. I can’t work wid dat ugly ting, looking at me so 
sassy. When T turn, he turn ; if I go to dis hand, why, he’s 
Jere ; if I change ’bout, anc' go t’oder hand, dere’s de crit- 
ter, jis de same. He nebber git out ob de way, ’till I run at urn 
wid stick.” 

Well, well, Scipio, kill your crow, but be sure and bring him 
m when you do so. You may go now.” 

“ I hab um to-night for you, mossa, ef God spare me. Look 
ya, young missis, you hab any coffee lef ’ in de pot ; I tanks 
you.” 

Jane Carrington, — a gentle and lovely girl of seventeen — who 
did the honours of the table, supplied Scipio’s wants, and leaving 
him to the enjoyment of his mug of coffee, Mr. C. and myself 
walked forth into the plantation. 

The little dialogue just narrated had almost entirely passed out 
of my mind, when, at evening, returning from his labours in the 
cornfield,* who should make his appearance but Scipio. He came 
to place the gun in the corner from which he had taken it ; but 
he brought with him no trophies of victory. He had failed to 
scalp his crow. The inquiry of his master as to his failure, 
drew my attention to the negro, who had simply placed the wea- 
pon in the rest, and was about to retire, with a countenance, as 
I thought, rather sullen and dissatisfied, and a hang-dog, sneak- 
ing manner, as if anxious to escape observation. He had ut- 
terly lost that air of confidence which he had worn in the morn- 
ing. 

“ What, Scipio ! no crow ?” demanded his master. 

“ I no shoot, sa,” replied the negro, moving off as he spoke, 
as if willing that the examination should rest there. But Mr. 
Carrington, who was something of a quiz, and saw that the poor 
fellow laboured under a feeling of mortified self-conceit, was not 
unwilling to worryhim a little further. 

“ Ah, Scip, I always thought you a poor shot, in spite of your 
bragging ; now J’na sure of it. A crow comes and stares you 
but of countenance, walks round you, and scarcely flies when 
you pelt him, and yet, when the gun is in your hands, you rty 
nothing. How’s that ?” 


THE LAZY CROW. 


33 ? 


“ I tell you, mossa, I no bin shoot. Ef I bin shoot, I bin hurt 
um in he head for true ; but dere’ no use for shoot, tel you can 
get shot, enty ? Wha’ for trow ’way de shot ? — you buy ’em. 
— he cos’ you money ; well, you hab money for trow ’way ? 
No 1 Wha’ c ^ip’s a big rascal for true, ef he trow ’ r " ' 
you money. Dat’s trow ’way you money, wha’s trow ’way you 
shot, — wha’s trow you corn, you peas, you fodder, you hog- meat, 
you chickens and eggs. Scip nebber trow ’way you property, 
mossa ; nobody nebber say sich ting.” 

“ Cunning dog — nobody accuses you, Scipio. I believe you to 
be as honest as the rest, Scipio, but haven’t you been throwing 
away time ; haven’t you been poking about after this crow to the 
neglect of your duty. Come, in plain language, did you get 
through your task to-day?” 

“Task done, mossa ; I finish um by tree ’clock.” 

“ Well, what, did you do with the rest of your time? Have 
you been at your own garden, Scipio ?” 

“ No, sa ; I no touch de garden.” 

“ Why not ? what employed you from three o’clock ?” 

“ Dis same crow, mossa; I tell you, mossa, ’tis dis same dirty 
nigger ob a crow I bin looking arter, ebber since I git over de 
task. He’s a ting da’s too sassy and aggrabates me berry much, 
i JOliOW urn *0 1 de sun shut he eye, and nebber can git shot. Ef 
I bin git shot, I nebber miss um, mossa, I tell you.” 

“ But why did you not get a shot ? You must have bungled 
monstrously, Scipio, not to succeed in getting a shot at a bird that 
is always about you. Does he bother you less than he did be 
fore, now that you have the gun ?” 

“ I spec’ he mus’ know, mossa, da’s de reason ; but he boddei 
me jis’ de same. He nebber lefT me all day I bin in de corn- 
field, but he neboer come so close for be shoot. He say to he sef, 
dat gun good at sixty yard, in Scip hand ; I stan’ sixty, I stan’ 
a hundred ; ef he shoot so far, I laugh at ’em. Da’s wha’ he say.” 

“ Well, even at seventy or eighty yards, you should have tried 
him, Scipio. The gun that tells at sixty, will be very apt to tell 
at seventy or eighty yards, if the nerves be good that hold it, 
and the eye close. Try him even at a hundred, Scipio, rather 
than lose your crow ; but put in your biggest shot.” 


338 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER II. 

The conference ended with this counse. of the maste The 
fellow promised to obey, and the next morning he sallied forth 
with the gun as before. By this time, both Mr. Carrington and 
myself had begun tc take some interest in the issue thus tacitly 
made up between the field negro and his annoying visiter. The 
anxiety which the former manifested, to destroy, in particular, 
one of a tribe, of which the corn-planter has an aversion so 
great as to prompt the frequent desire of the Roman tyrant touch- 
ing his enemies, and make him wish that they had but one neck 
that a single blow might despatch them — was no less ridiculous 
than strange ; and we both fell to our fancies to account for an 
hostility, which could not certainly be accounted for by any or- 
dinary anxiety of the good planter on such an occasion. It was 
evident to both of us that the imagination of Scipio was not in- 
active in the strife, and, knowing how exceeding superstitious the* 
negro.es generally are, (and indeed, all inferior people,) after can- 
vassing the subject in various lights, without coming to any ra- 
tional solution, we concluded that the difficulty arose from some 
grotesque fear or fancy, with which the fellow had been inspired, 
probably by some other negro, on a circumstance as casual as 
any one of the thousand by which the Roman augur divined, and 
the soothsayer gave forth his oracular responses. Scipio had 
good authority for attaching no small importance to the flight or 
stoppage of a bird ; and, with this grave justification of his trou- 
bles, we resolved to let the matter rest till we could join the 
negro in the cornfield, and look for ourselves into the condition of 
the rival parties. 

This we did that very morning. “ ’Possum Place,” — for such 
had been the whimsical name conferred upon his estate by the 
proprietor, in reference to the vast numbers of the little animal, 
nightly found upon it, the opossum, the meat of which a sagacious 
negro will always prefer to that of a pig, — lay upon the Santee 


THE LAZY CROW. 


339 


swamp, and consisted pretty evenly of reclaimed swamp-land, in 
which he raised his cotton, and fine high pine-land hammock, on 
which he made his corn. To one of the fields of the latter we 
made our way about mid-day, and were happy to find Scipio in 
actual controversy with the crow that troubled him. Controver- 
sy is scarce the word, but I can find no fitter at this moment. 
The parties were some hundred yards asunder. The negro was 
busy with his hoe, and the gun leaned conveniently at hand on a 
contiguous and charred pine stump, one of a thousand that dotted 
*he entire surface of the spacious field in which he laboured. 
The crow leisurely passed to and fro along the alleys, now lost 
among the little hollows and hillocks, and now emerging into sight, 
sometimes at a less, sometimes at a greater distance, but always 
with a deportment of the most lord-like indifference to the 
world around him. His gait was certainly as stately and as lazy 
as that of a Castilian the third remove from a king and the tenth 
from a shirt. We could discover in him no other singularity but 
this marked audacity ; and both Mr. Carrington’s eyes and mine 
were stretched beyond their orbits, but in vain, to discover that 
speck of “ gray dirt upon he wing,” which Scipio had been very 
careful to describe with the particularity of one who felt that the 
duty would devolve on him to brush the jacket of the intruder. 
We. learned from the negro that his sooty visiter had come alone 
as usual, — for though there might have been a sprinkling of some 
fifty crows here and there about the field, we could not perceive 
that any of them had approached to any more familiarity with 
the one that annoyed him, than with himself. He had been able 
to get no shot as yet, though he did not despair of better fortune 
through the day ; and, in order to the better assurance of his 
hopes, the poor fellow had borne what he seemed to consider the 
taunting swagger of the crow all around him, without so much 
as lifting weapon, or making a single step towards him. 

“ Give me your gun,” said Mr. Carrington. “ If he walks no 
faster than now, I’ll give him greater weight to carry.” 

But the lazy crow treated the white man with a degree of def- 
erence that made the negro stare. He made off at full speed 
with the first movement towards him, and disappeared from sight 


340 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


in a few seconds. We lost him seemingly among the willows 
and fern of a little bay that lay a few hundred yar(.s beyond us. 

“ What think you of that, Scip V ’ demanded the master. “ I’ve 
done more with a single motion than you’ve done for days, with 
?\U your poking and pelting. He’ll hardly trouble you in a hurry 
again, though, if he does, you know well enough now, how to get 
rid of him.” 

“ The negro’s face brightened for an instant, but suddenly 
changed, while he replied, — 

“ Ah, mossa, when you back turn, he will come ’gen — he dah 
watch you now.” 

Sure enough, — we had not proceeded a hundred yards, before 
the calls of Scipio drew our attention to the scene we had left. 
The bedevilled negro had his hand uplifted with something of an 
air of horror, while a finger guided us to the spot where the lazy 
crow was taking his rounds, almost in the very place from whence 
the hostile advance of Mr. Carrington had driven him ; and with 
a listless, lounging strut of aristocratic composure, that provoked 
our wonder quite as much as the negro’s indignation. 

“ Let us see it out,” said Mr. C., returning to the scene of 
action. “ At him, Scipio ; take your gun and do your best.” 

But this did not seem necessary. Our return had the efFect of 
sending the sooty intruder to a distance, and, after lingering some 
time to see if he would reappear while we were present, but with- 
out success, we concluded to retire from the ground. At night, 
we gathered from the poor negro that our departure was the sig- 
nal for the crow’s return. He walked the course with impunity, 
though Scipio pursued him several times, and towards the close 
of day, in utter desperation, gave him both barrels, not only 
without fracturing a feather, but actually, according to Scip’s 
story, without occasioning in him the slightest discomposure or 
alarm. He merely changed his place at each onset, doubled on 
his own ground, made a brief circuit, and back again to the old 
station, looking as impudently, and walking along as lazily as 
ever. 


THE LAZY CROW. 


341 


CHAPTER III. 

Some days passed by and I saw nothing of Scipio. It appears, 
however, that his singular conflict with the lazy crow was car- 
ried on with as much pertinacity on the one side, and as little pa- 
tience on the other, as before. Still, daily, did he provide himself 
with the weapon and munitions of war, making as much fuss- in 
loading it, and putting in shot as large as if he purposed warfare 
on some of the more imposing occupants of the forest, rather than 
a simple bird, so innocent in all respects except the single one 
of corn-stealing, as the crow. A fact, of which we obtained 
possession some time after, and from the other negroes, enlighten- 
ed us somewhat on the subject of Scipio’s own faith as to the true 
character of his enemy. In loading his gun, he counted out liis 
shot, being careful to get an odd number. In using big buck he 
numbered two sevens for a load ; the small buck, three ; and 
seven times seven duck shot, when he used the latter, were 
counted out as a charge, with the studious nicety of the jeweller 
at his pearls and diamonds. Then followed the mystic process of 
depositing the load within the tube, from which it was to issue 
forth in death and devastation. His face was turned from the 
sunlight ; the blaze was not suffered to rest upon the bore or bar- 
rel ; and when the weapon was charged, it was carried into the 
field only on his left shoulder. In spite of all these preparations, 
the lazy crow came and went as before. He betrayed no change 
of demeanour ; he showed no more consciousness of danger ; he 
submitted to pursuit quietly, never seeming to hurry himself in 
escaping, and was quite as close an overseer of Scipio’s conduct, 
as he had shown himself from the first. Not a day passed that 
the negro failed to shoot at him ; always, however, by his own 
account, at disadvantage, and never, it appears, with any success. 
The consequence of all this was, that Scipio fell sick. What 
with the constant annoyance of the thing, and a too excitable 
imagination, Scipio, a stout fellow nearly six feet high, and half 


342 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


as many broad, laid himself at length in his cabin, at the ena of 
the week, and was placed on the sick-list accordingly. But as a 
negro will never take physic if he can help it, however ready he 
may be to complain, it was not till Sunday afternoon, that Jane 
Carrington, taking her customary stroll on that day to the negro 
quarters, ascertained the fact. She at once apprised her father, 
who was something of a physician, (as every planter should be,) 
and who immediately proceeded to visit the invalid. He found 
him without any of the customary signs of sickness. His pulse 
was low and feeble, rather than full or fast ; his tongue tolerably 
clean ; his skin not unpleasant, and, in all ordinary respects 
Scipio would have been pronounced in very good condition for his 
daily task, and his hog and hominy. But he was an honest fel- 
iow, and the master well knew that there was no negro on his 
plantation so little given to “ playing ’possum,’ 5 as Scipio. He 
complained of being very unwell, though he found it difficult to 
designate his annoyances, and say where or in what respect his ail- 
ing lay. Questions only confused and seemed to vex him, and, 
though really skilful in the cure of sucli complaints as ordinarily 
occur on a plantation, Mr. Carrington, in the case before him, 
was really at a loss. The only feature of Scipio’s disease that 
was apparent, was a full and raised expression of the eye, that 
seemed to swell out whenever he spoke, or when he was required 
to direct his attention to any object, or answer to any specific in- 
quiry. The more the master observed him, the more difficult it 
became to utter an opinion, and he was finally compelled to leave 
him for the night, without medicine, judging it wiser to let na- 
ture take the subject in hand until he could properly determine 
in what respect he suffered. But the morrow brought no allevi- 
ation of Scipio’s sufferings. He was still sick as before — inca- 
pable of work, — indeed, as he alleged, unable to leave his bed, 
though his pulse was a little exaggerated from the night previous, 
and exhibited only that degree of energy and fulness, which 
might be supposed natural to one moved by sudden physical ex- 
citement. His master half-suspected him of shamming, but the 
lugubrious expression of the fellow’s face, could scarcely be as- 
sumed for any purpose, and was to all eyes as natural as could 
be. He evidently thought himself in a bad way. I suggested 


THE LAZY CROW. 


343 

some simple medicine, such as salts or castor oil — any thing, in- 
deed, which could do no harm, and which could lessen the pa- 
tient’s apprehensions, which seemed to increase with the evident 
inability of his master to give him help. Still he could scarcely 
tell where it hurt him ; his pains were every where, in head, 
back, shoulder, heels, and strange to say, at the tips of his ears. 
Mr. C. was puzzled, and concluded to avoid the responsibility of 
such a case, by sending for the neighbouring physician. 

Dr. C , a very clever and well-read man, soon made his 

appearance, and was regularly introduced to the patient. His re- 
plies to the physician were as little satisfactory as those which he 
had made to us ; and, after a long and tedious cross examination 
by doctor and master, the conclusion was still the same. Some 
few things, however, transpired in the inquiry, which led us all to 
the same inference with the doctor, who ascribed Scipio’s condi- 
tion to some mental hallucination. While the conversation had 
been going on in his cabin — a dwelling like most negro houses, 
made with poles, and the chinks stopped with clay, — he turned 
abruptly from the physician to a negro girl that brought him soup, 
and asked the following question. 

“ Who bin tell Gullah Sam for come in yer yesserday ?” 

The girl looked confused, and made no answer. 

“ Answer him,” said the master. 

“ Da’s him — why you no talk, nigger ?” said the patient au 
thoritatively. “ I ax you who bin tell Gullah Sam for come in 
yer yesserday ?” 

“ He bin come ?” responded the girl with another inquiry. 

“ Sure, he bin come — enty I see urn wid he dirty gray jacket, 
like dirt on a crow wing. He tink I no see um — he ’tan dere in 
dis corner, close de chimney, and look wha’s a cook in de pot. 
Oh, how my ear bu’n — somebody’s a talking bad tings ’bou* 
Scipio now.” 

There was a good deal in this speech to interest Mr. Carring- 
ton and myself ; we could trace something of his illness to his strife 
with the crow ; but who was Gullah Sam ? This was a ques- 
tion put both by the doctor and myself, at the same moment. 

“ You no know Gullah Sam, enty ? Ha ! better you don’t 


344 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


know ’um — he’s a nigger da’s more dan nigger — wish he min’ 
he own bis’ness.” 

With these words the patient turned his face to the wall of his 
habitation, and seemed unwilling to vouchsafe us any farther 
speech. It was thought unnecessary to annoy him with farther 
inquiries, and, leaving the cabin, we obtained the. desired infor- 
mation from his master. 

“ Gullah Sam,” said he, “ is a native born African from the 
Gold Coast, who belongs to my neighbour, Mr. Jamison, and was 
bought by his father out of a Rhode Island slaver, some time be- 
fore the Revolution. He is now, as you may suppose, rather an 
old man ; and, to all appearances, would seem a simple and silly 
one enough ; but the negroes all around conceive him to be a great 
conjurer, and look upon his powers as a wizard, with a degree of 
dread, only to be accounted for by the notorious superstition of ig- 
norance. I have vainly endeavoured to overcome their fears and 
prejudices on this subject ; but the object of fear is most common- 
ly, at the same time, an object of veneration, and they hold on to 
the faith which has been taught them, with a tenacity like that 
with which the heathen clings to the idol, the wrath of which he 
seeks to deprecate, and which he worships only because he fears. 
The little conversation which we have had with Scipio, in his 
partial delirium, has revealed to me what a sense of shame has 
kept him from declaring before. He believes himself to be be- 
witched by Gullah Sam, and, whether the African possesses any 
power such as he pretends to or not, is still the same to Scipio, if 
his mind has a full conviction that he does, and that he has be- 
come its victim. A superstitious negro might as well be be- 
witched, as to fancy that he is so.” 

“ And what do you propose to do ?” was my inquiry. 

“Nay, that question I cannot answer you. It is a work of 
philosophy, rather than of physic, and we must become the mas- 
ters of the case, before we can prescribe for it. We must note 
the fancies of the patient himself, and make these subservient to 
the cure. I know of no other remedy.” 


THE LAZY CROW. 


345 


CHAPTER IV. 

That evening, we all returned to the cabin of Scipio. We 
found him more composed — sane, perhaps, would be the proper 
word — than in the morning, and, accordingly, perfectly silent on 
the subject of Gullah Sam. His master took the opportunity of 
speaking to him in plain language. 

“Scipio, why do you try to keep the truth from me? Have 
you ever found me a bad master, that you should fear to tell me 
the truth ?■” 

“ Nebber say sich ting ! Who tell you, mossa, I say you bad ?” 
replied the negro with a lofty air of indignation, rising on his arm 
in the bed. 

“ Why should you keep the truth from me V ’ was the reply. 

“ Wha’ trut’ I keep from you, mossa ?” 

“ The cause of your sickness, Scipio. Why di I \ ou not tell me 
that Gullah Sam had bewitched you ?” 

The negro was confounded. 

“ How you know, mossa ?” was his demand. 

“ It matters not,” replied the master, “ but how came Gullah 
Sam to bewitch you ?” 

“ He kin ’witch den, mossa ?” was the rather triumphant de- 
mand of the negro, who saw, in his master’s remark, a concession 
to his faith, which had always been withheld before. Mr. Car- 
rington extricated himself from the dilemma with sufficient 
promptness and ingenuity. 

“ The devil has power, Scipio, over all that believe in him. If 
you believe that Gullah Sam can do with you what he pleases, hi 
spite of God and the Saviour, there is no doubt that he can ; and 
God and the Saviour will alike give you up to his power, since, 
when you believe in the devil, you refuse to believe in them. 
They have told you, and the preacher has told you, and I have 
told you, that Gullah Sam can do you no sort of harm, if you will 
refuse to believe in what he tells you. Why then do you believe 


546 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


in that miserable and ignorant old African, sooner than in God 
and the preacher, and myself?” 

“ I can’t help it, mossa — de ting’s de ting, and you can’t change 
’um. Dis Gullah Sam— he wus more nor ten debble — I jis’ laugh 
at ’um t’oder day — tree week ’go, when he tumble in de hoss 
pond, and he shake he finger at me, and ebber since he put he bad 
mout’ pon me. Ebber sence dat time, dat ugly crow bin stand 
in my eyes, whichebber way I tu’n. He hab gray dirt on he 
wing, and enty dere’s a gray patch on Gullah Sam jacket ? 
Gullah Sam hab close ’quaintan’ wid dat same lazy crow da’s 
walk roun’ me in de cornfield, mossa. I bin tink so from de fuss ; 
and when he ’tan and le’ me shoot at ’um, and no ’fraid, den I 
sartain.” 

“ Well, Scipio,” said the master, “ 1 will soon put an end to 
Sam’s power. I will see Mr. Jamison, and will have Sam well 
flogged for his witchcraft. I think you ought to be convinced 
that a wizard who suffers himself to be flogged, is but a poor 
devil after all.” 

The answer of the negro was full of consternation. 

“ Forf Chris’ sake, mossa, I beg you do no sich ting. You 
lick Gullah Sam, den you lose Scipio for eber and eber, amen. 
Gullah Sam nebber guine take off. de bad mout’ he put on 
Scip, once you lick em. De" pains will keep in de bones — de leg 
will dead, fuss de right leg, den de lef, one arter t’oder, and you 
nigger will dead, up and up, till noting lef for dead but he head. 
He head will hab life, when you kin put he body in de hole, and 
cubbur um up wid du’t. You mus’ try n’oder tings, mossa, for 
get you nigger cure — you lick Gullah Sam, ’tis kill um for 
ebber.” 

A long conversation ensued among us, Scipio taking occasion- 
al part in it ; for, now that his secret was known, he seemed some- 
what relieved, and gave utterance freely to his fears and supersti- 
tions ; and determined for and against, the remedies which we 
severally proposed, with the authority of one, not only more detp- 
iy interested in the case than any one beside, but who also knew 
more about it. Having unscrupulously opposed nearly every plan, 
even in its inception, which was suggested, his master, out of all 
patience, at last exclaimed, 


THE LAZY CROW. 


347 


“ Well, Scipio, it seems nothing will please you. What woula 
you have ? what course shall I take to dispossess the devil, and 
send Gullah Sam about his business?” 

After a brief pause, in which the negro twisted from side to 
side of his bed, he ansv/ered as follows : 

“ Ef you kin trow way money on Scip, mossa, dere’s a way l 
link ’pon, dat’ll do um help, if dere’s any ting kin help um now, 
widout go to Gullah Sam. But it’s a berry ’spensive wav, mossa.” 

“How much will it cost?” demanded the master. “ I am not 
unwilling to pay money for you, either to cure you when you are 
sick, as you ought to know by my sending for the doctor, or by 
putting more sense into your head than you seem to have at pres- 
ent. How much money do you think it will take to send the 
devil out of you ?” 

“ Ha ! mossa, you no speak ’spectful ’nough. Dis Gullah Sam 
hard to move ; more dan de lazy crow dat walk in de cornfield. 
He will take money ’nough ; mas’ a bag ob cotton in dese hard 
times.” 

“ Pshaw — speak out, and tell me what you mean !” said the 
now thoroughly impatient master. 

“ Dere’s an old nigger, mossa, dat’s an Ebo, — he lib ober on 
St. Matt’ew’s, by de bluff, place of Major Thompson. He’s mighty 
great hand for cure bad mout’. He’s named ’Tuselah, and he’s 
a witch he sef, worse more nor Gullah Sam. Gullah Sam fear’d 
um — berry fear’d um. You send for ’Tuselah, mossa, he cos’ 
vou more nor twenty dollars. Scipio git well for sartin, and you 
nebber yerry any more ’bout dat sassy crow in de cornfield.” 

“ If I thought so,” replied Mr. Carrington, looking round upon 
us, as if himself half ashamed to give in to the suggestions of the 
negro ; “ if I thought so, I would certainly send for Methuselah. 
But really, there’s something very ridiculous in all this.” 

“ I think not,” was my reply. “ Your own theory will sustain 
you, since, if Scipio’s fancy makes one devil, he is equally as- 
sured, by the same fancy, of the counter power of the other.” 

“ Besides,” said the doctor, “ you are sustained by the prov- 
erb, ‘set a thief to catch a thief.’ The thing is really curious. 
I shall be anxious to see how the St. Matthew’s wizard overcomes 
him of Santee ; though, to speak truth, a sort of sectional interest 


348 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


in my own district, would almost tempt me to hope that he ma^ 
be defeated. This should certainly be my prayer, were it not 
that I have some commiseration for Scipio. 1 should be sorry to 
see him dying by inches.” 

“ By feet rather,” replied his master with a laugh. “ First the 
right leg, then the left, up and up, until life remains to him in 
his head only. But, you shall have your wish, Scipio. I will 
send a man to-morrow by daylight to St. Matthew ; s for Methuse- 
lah, and if he can overcame Gullah Sam at his own weapons, I 
shall not begrudge him the twenty dollars.” 

“ Tenks, mossa, tousand tenks,” was the reply of the invalid ; 
his countenance suddenly brightening for the first iime for a 
week, as if already assured of the happy termination of his afflic- 
tion. Meanwhile, we left him to his cogitations, each .of us mu- 
sing to himself, as well on the singular mental infirmities of a 
negro, at once sober, honest, and generally sensible, and that 
strange sort of issue which was about to be made up, between the 
respective followers of ffle rival principles of African witchcraft, 
the Gullfth and the Ebo fetishes. 


THE LAZY CROW 


349 


CHAPTER V. 

The indulgent master that night addressed a letter to the own- 
er of Methuselah, stating all the circumstances of the case, arid 
soliciting permission for the wizard, of whom such high expecta- 
tions were formed, or fancied, to return with the messenger, who 
took with him an extra horse that the journey might be made 
with sufficient despatch. To this application a ready assent was 
given, and the messenger returned on the day after his departure, 
attended by the sage personage in question. 

Methuselah was an African, about sixty-five years of age, with 
a head round as an owl’s, and a countenance quite as grave and 
contemplative. His features indicated all the marked character- 
istics of his race, low forehead, high cheek bone, small eyes, fiat 
nose, thick lips, and a chin sharp and retreating. * He was not 
more than five feet high, and with legs so bowed that — to use 
Scipio’s expression, when he was so far recovered as to be ajfie 
again to laugh at his neighbour, — a yearling calf might easily 
run between them without grazing the calf. There was nothing 
promising in such a person but his sententiousness and gravity, 
and Methuselah possessed these characteristics in remarkable 
degree. When asked — 

Can you cure this fellow ?” his answer, almost insolently 
expressed, was, — 

(i I come for dat.” 

“ You can cure people who are bewitched V 9 

1 “ He no dead ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Belly well ; I cure em ; — can’t cure dead nigger.” 

There was but little to be got out of such a character by exami- 
nation, direct or cross ; and attending him to Scipio’s wigwam, we 
tacitly resolved to look as closely into his proceedings as we could, 
assured, that in no other way could we possibly hope to arrive at 
any knowledge of his modus operandi in so curiojis a case* 


350 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


Scipio was very glad to see the wizard of St. Matthew’s, and 
pointing to a chair, the only one in his chamber, he left us to the 
rude stools, of which there happened to be a sufficient supply. 

“ Well, brudder,” said the African abruptly, “ wha’s matter ?” 

“ Ha, Mr. ’Tuselah, I bin hab berry bad mout’ put ’pon me.” 

“ I know dat — you eyes run water — you ears hot — you hab 
knee shake — you trimble in de joint.” 

“ You hit urn ; ’tis jis’ dem same ting. I hab ears bu’n berry 
much,” and thus encouraged to detail his symptoms, the garru- 
lous Scipio Would have prolonged his chronicle to the crack of 
doom, but that the wizard valued his time too much, to suffer any 
unnecessary eloquence on the part of his patient. 

“ You see two tings at a time ?” asked the African. 

“ How ! I no see,” replied Scipio, not comprehending the ques- 
tion, which simply meant, do you ever see double ? To this, 
when explained, he answered in a decided negative. 

“ ’Tis a man den, put he bad mout’ ’pon you,” said the 
African. 

“ Gor-a-mighty, how you knew dat ?” exclaimed Scipio. 

“ Hush, my brudder — wha’ beas’ he look like ?” 

“ He’s a d — n black nigger ob a crow — a dirty crow, da’s lazy 
for true.” 

“ Ha ! he lazy — -you sure he ain’t lame V 

“ He no lame.” 

Scipio then gave a close description of the crow which had 
pestered him, precisely as he had given it to his master, as re- 
corded in our previous pages. The African heard him with pa 
tience, then proceeded with oracular gravity. 

“ ’Tis old man wha’s trouble you 

“ Da’s a trute !” 

“ Hush, my brudder. Whay you bin see dis crow V 

“ Crow in de cornfiel’, Mr. ’Tuselah ; he can’t come in de 
house.” 

“ Who bin vvid you all de time ?” 

“Jenny — de gal — he ’tan up in de corner now.” 

Tl e magician turned and looked upon the person indicated by 
Scipio’s finger — a little negro girl, probably ten years old. Then 
turning again to Scipio, he asked, 


THE LAZY CROW. 


351 


“ bin sick two, tree, seben day, brudder — how long you bin 
on you bed ?” 

“ Since Saturday night — da’s six day to-day.” 

“ And you hab nobody come for look ’pon you, since you bin 
on de bed, but dis gal, and de buckrah ?” 

Scipio confessed to several of the field negroes, servants of his 
own master, all of whom he proceeded to describe in compliance 
with the requisitions of the wizard, who, as if still unsatisfied, bade 
him, in stern accents, remember if nobody else had been in the 
cabin, or, in his own language, had “set he eye ’pon you.” 

The patient hesitated for awhile, but the question being repeat- 
ed, he confessed that in a half-sleep or stupor, he had fancied see. 
ing Gullah Sam looking in upon him through the half-opened door; 
and at another time had caught glimpses, in his sleep, of the same 
features, through a chink between the logs, where the clay had 
fallen. 

“ Fla ! ha !” said the wizard, with a half-savage grin of mingled 
delight and sagacity — “ I hab nose, — I smell. Well, brudder, I 
mus’ gib you physic, — you mus’ hab good sweat to-night, and 
smood skin to-morrow.” 

Thus ended the conference with Scipio. The man of mystery 
arose and left the hovel, bidding us follow, and carefully fasten- 
ing the door after him. 

This done, he anointed some clay, which he gathered in the 
neighbourhood, with his spittle, and plastered it over the lintel. 
He retired with us a little distance, and when we were about to 
separate, he for the woods, and we for the dwelling-house, he said 
in tones more respectful than those which he employed to Mr. 
Carrington on his first coming, 

“ You hab niggers, mossa — women is de bes’ — dat lub for talk 
roo much ?” 

“Yes, a dozen of them.” 

“ You sen’ one to de plantation where dis Gullah Sam lib, hut 
don’t sen’ um to Gullah Sam ; sen’ um to he mossa or he missis ; 
and borrow someting — any ting — old pot or kettle — no matter if 
you don’t want ’em, you beg um for lend you. Da’s ’nough.” 

Mr. Carrington would have had the wizard’s reasons for this 
wish, but finding him reluctant to declare them, he promised his 


362 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


consent, concluding, as was perhaps the case, that the only object 
was to let Gullah Sam know that a formidable enemy had taken \ 
the field against him, and in defence of his victim.* This would 
seem to account for his desire that the messenger should be a wo- 
man, and one “ wha J lub for talk too much.” He then obtained 
directions for the nearest path to the swamp, and when we looked 
that night into the wigwam of Scipio, we found him returned with 
a peck of roots of sundry sorts, none of which we knew, prepared 
to make a decoction, in which his patient was to be immersed from 
head to heels. Leaving Scipio with the contemplation of this 
steaming prospect before him, we retired for the night, not a little 
anxious for those coming events which cast no shadow before us, 
or one so impenetrably thick, that we failed utterly to see 
through it. 

* Since penning the above conjecture, I remember a story which was rela- 
ted to me several years ago, by a venerable country lady of South Carolina, 
who, to the merit of telling a good story well, added the equally commendable 
merit of always believing the story which she told — in which it was insisted 
upon, in these controversies between rival wizards, and, if I mistake not, in all 
cases where witch or wizard aimed to operate, that, to obtain complete success, 
it was necessary that they should succeed in borrowing something out of the 
house which was to be the scene of their diablerie. In this story, though a 
mere boy at the time, I can well remember the importance attached by a 
mother to the instructions which she gave her daughter, on going abroad, to 
lend nothing out of the house, under any circumstances, or to any body, du- 
ring her absence. She had scarcely disappeared, — the story went on to relate, 

— before an old woman of the neighbourhood, whose intentions were already 
suspected, came to borrow a sieve. The girl, without admitting her into the 
house, for the door had been locked by the provident mother, answered her 
demand through the window by an unvarying refusal. Baffled in her aim by 
the child’s firmness, the prayers and entreaties of the applicant were changed 
into the bitterest abuse and execrations, clearly showing, whatever might have 1 
been her pretensions or powers of evil, the devilish malignity of purpose which 
*fae entertained 


THE LAZY CROW 


353 


CHAPTER VI. 

In the morning, strange to say, we found Scipio considerably 
better, and in singularly good spirits. The medicaments of the 
African, or pnore likely the pliant imagination of the patient him- 
self, had wrought a charm in his behalf; and instead of groan- 
ing at every syllable, as he had done for several days before, he 
now scarcely uttered a word that was not accompanied by a grin. 
The magician seemed scarcely less pleased than his patient, par- 
ticularly when he informed us that he had not only obtained the 
article the woman was sent to borrow, but that Gullah Sam had 
been seen prowling, late at night, about the negro houses, without 
daring, however, to venture nigh that of the invalid — a forbear- 
ance which the necromancer gave us to understand, was entirely 
involuntary, and in spite of the enemy’s desire, who was baffled and 
kept away by the spell contained in the ointment which he had 
placed on the lintel, in our presence the evening before. Still, 
half-ashamed of being even quiescent parties merely to this sol- 
emn mummery, we were anxious to see the end of it, and our 
African promised that he would do much towards relieving 
Scipio from his enchantment, by the night of the same day. His 
spells and fomentations had worked equally well, and Scipio' was 
not only more confident in mind, but more sleek and strong in 
body. With his own hands, it appears, that the wizard had rub- 
bed down the back and shoulders of his patient with corn-shucks 
steeped in the decoction he had made, and, what was a more 
strange specific still, he had actually subjected Scipio to a smart- 
er punishment, with a stout hickory, than his master had given 
him for many a year. This, the poor fellow not only bore 
with Christian fortitude, but actually rejoiced in, imploring addi- 
tional strokes when the other ceased. We could very well un- 
derstand that Scipio deserved a whipping for laughing at an aged 
man, because he fell into the water, but we failed to ascertain 
from the taciturn wizard, that this was the rationale of an appli 

24 


354 


TIIE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


cation which a negro ordinarily is never found to approve. Tbia 
over, Scipio was again put to bed, a green twig hung over the 
door of his cabin within, while the unctuous plaster was renewed 
freshly on the outside. The African then repeated certain un- 
couth sounds over the patient, bade him shut his eyes and go to 
sleep, in order to be in readiness and go into the fields by the 
time the sun was turning for the west. 

“ What,” exclaimed Mr. Carrington, “ do you think him able 
to go into the field to-day ? He is very weak ; he has taken lit 
tie nourishment for several days.” 

“ He mus 5 able,” returned the imperative African ; “ he ’trong 
’nough; He mus 5 able — he hab for carry gun.” 

With these words the wizard left us without deigning any ex- 
planation of his future purposes, and, taking his way towards the 
swamp, he was soon lost to our eyes in the mighty depth of its 
shrouding recesses. 

When he returned, which was not till noon, he came at once 
to the mansion-house, without seeking his patient, and entering 
the hall where the family was all assembled, he challenged our 
attention as well by his appearance as by his words. Fie had, 
it would seem, employed himself in arranging his own appearance 
while in the swamp ; perhaps, taking one of its thousand lakes or 
ponds for his mirror. His woolly hair, which was very long, 
was plaited carefully up, so that the ends stuck out from his 
brow, as pertly and pointedly as the tails of pigs, suddenly 
aroused to a show of delightful consciousness on discovering a 
forgotten corn-heap. Perhaps that sort of tobacco, known by the 
attractive and characteristic title of “ pigtail,” would be the most 
fitting to convey to the mind of the reader the peculiar form of 
plait which the wizard had adopted for his hair. This mode of 
disposing of his matted mop, served to display the tattooed and 
strange figures upon his temples, — the certain signs, as he assu- 
red us, of princely rank in his native country. Pie carried a long 
wand in his hand, freshly cut and peeled, at one end of which he 
had tied a small hempen cord. The skin of the wand was plait- 
ed round his own neck. In a large leaf he brought with him a 
small portion of some stuff which he seemed to preserve very 
carefully, but which appeared to us to be nothing more than coarse 


THE LAZY CROW. 


355 


sand or gravel. To this he added a small portion of salt, which 
he obtained from the mistress of the house, and which he stirred 
together in our presence until the salt had been lost to the eye in 
the sand or gravel, or whatever might have been the article which 
he had brought with him. This done, he drew the shot from both 
barrels of the gun, and in its place, deposited the mixture which 
he had thus prepared. 

“ Buckrah will come 'long now. Scipio guine looka for «le 
crow.” 

Such were his words, which he did not wait to hear an- 
swered or disputed, but takilig the gun, he led the way towards 
the wigwam of Scipio. Our anxiety to see the conclusion of 
the adventure, did not suffer us to lose any time in following him. 
To our surprise, we found Scipio dressed and up ; ready, and it 
would seem perfectly able, to undertake what the African assign- 
ed him. The gun was placed in his hands, and he was told to 
take his way to the cornfield as usual, and proceed to work. He 
was also informed by the wizard, with a confidence that surprised 
us, that the lazy crow would be sure to be there as usual ; and 
he was desired to get as close as he could, and take good aim at 
his head in shooting him. 

“ You sure for hit um, brudder,” said the African ; “ so, don’t 
’tan too long for look. Jis’.you git close, take you sight, and gib 
um bot’ barrel. But fuss, ’fore you go, I mus’ do someting wid 
you eye.” 

The plaster was taken from the door, as Scipio passed through 
it, re-softened with the saliva of the wizard, who, with his finger, 
described an arched line over each of the patient’s eyes. 

“ You go ’long by you’sef now, brudder, and shoot de crow 
when you see um. He’s a waiting for you now, I ’spec’.” 

We were about to follow Scipio to the field, but our African 
kept us back ; and leading the way to a little copse that divided 
it from the swamp, he took us to its shelter, and required us to 
remain with him out of sight of the field, until some report from 
Scipio or his gun, should justify us in going forth. 


356 


THE WIGWAM ivAD THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER TIL 

Here we remained in no little anxiety for the space of nearly 
two hours, in which time, however, the African showed no sort 
of impatience, and none of that feverish anxiety which made us 
restless in body and eager, to the last degree, in mind. We 
tried to fathom his mysteries, but in' vain. He contented himself 
with assuring us that the witchcraft which he used, and that 
which he professed himself able to cure, was one that never 
could affect the white man in any way. Fie insisted that the re- 
spective gods of the two races were essentially very different ; 
as different as the races themselves. He also admitted that 
the god of the superior race was necessarily equal to the task of 
governing both, while the inferior god could only govern the one 
— that of taking charge of his, was one of those small businesses, 
with which it was not often that the former would soil his hands. 
To use his own phrase, “ there is a god for de big house, and an- 
other for de kitchen.” 

While we talked over these topics, and strove, with a waste of 
industry, to shake the faith of the African in his own peculiar 
deities and demons, we heard the sound of Scipio’s gun — a sound 
that made us forget all nicer matters of theology, and set off with 
full speed towards the quarter whence it came. The wizard fol- 
lowed us slowly, waving his wand in circles all the way, and pull- 
ing the withes from his neck, and casting them around him as he 
came. During this time, his mouth was in constant motion, and 
I could hear at moments, strange, uncouth sounds breaking from 
his lips. When we reached Scipio, the fellow was in a state lit- 
tle short of delirium. He had fired both barrels, and had cast 
th 1 gun down upon the ground after the discharge. He was 
wringing his hands above his head in a sort of phrensy of joy, 
and at our approach he threw himself down upon the earth, 
laughing with the delight of one who has lost his wits in a dream 
of pleasure. 


THE LAZY CROW 


351 


** Where’s the crow ?” demanded his master. 

“ I shoot um — I shoot um in he head — enty I tell yc , mossa, 
I will hit um in he head ? Soon he poke he nose ober 6-*. ground, 
I gib it to um. Hope he bin large shot. He gone t’rough he 
head, — t’rough and t’rough. Ha! ha! ha ! If dat crow be Gul- 
lah Sam! if Gullah Sam be git in crow jacket, ho, mossa ! he 
nebber git out crow jacket ’till somebody skin um. Ha ! ha ! ho ! 
ho! ho! ki ! ki ! ki ! ki ! la! ki ! Oh, mossa, wonder how Gul- 
lah Sam feel in crow jacket !” 

It was in this strain of incoherent exclamation, that the inva- 
lid gave vent to his joyful paroxysm at the thought of having put a 
handful of duck shot into the hide of his mortal enemy. The un- 
christian character of his exultation received a severe reproof 
from his master, which sobered the fellow sufficiently to enable 
us to get from him a more sane description of his doings. He 
told us that the crow had come to bedevil him as usual, only — 
and the fact became subsequently of considerable importance, — 
that he had now lost the gray dirt from his wing, which had so pe- 
culiarly distinguished it before, and was now as black as the most 
legitimate suit ever worn by crow, priest, lawyer, or physician. 
This change in the outer aspect of the bird had somewhat confound- 
ed the negro, and made him loth to expend his shot, for fear of wast- 
ing the charmed charge upon other than the genuine Simon Pure. 
But the deportment of the other — lazy, lounging, swaggering, as 
usual — convinced Scipio in spite of his eyes, that his old enemy 
stood in fact before him ; and without wasting time, he gave him 
both barrels at the same moment. 

" But where’s the crow ?” demanded the master. 

“ I knock um ober, mossa ; I see um tumble ; ’speck you find 
um t’od^r side de cornhill.” 

Nothing could exceed the consternation of Scipio, when, on 
reaching the designated spot, we found no sign of the supposed 
victim. The poor fellow rubbed his eyes, in doubt of their visual 
capacities, and looked round aghast, for an explanation, to the wiz- 
ard who was npw approaching, waving his wand in long sweeping 
circles as he came, and muttering, as before, those strange un- 
couth sounds, which we relished as little as we understood. He 


358 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


did not seem at all astonished at the result of Scipio’s shot, but 
abruptly askeff of him — “ Whay’s de fus’ water, brudder Scip ?” 

“ De water in de bay, Mass ’Tuselah,” was the reply ; the 
speaker pointing as he spoke to the little spot of drowned land on 
the very corner of the field, which, covered with thick shoots of 
the small sweet bay tree, — the magnolia glauca, — receives its 
common name among the people from its almost peculiar growth. 

“ Push for de bay ! push for de bay !” exclaimed the African, 
“ and see wha’ you see. Run, Scip ; run, nigger — see wha’ lay 
in de bay •!” 

These words, scarcely understood by us, set Scipio in motion. 
At full speed he set out, and, conjecturing from his movement, 
rather than from the words of the African, his expectations, off 
we set also at full speed after him. Before we reached the spot, 
to our great surprise, Scipio emerged from the bay, dragging be- 
hind him the reluctant and trembling form of the aged negro, Gul- 
lah Sam. He had found him washing his face, which was cov- 
ered with little pimples and scratches, as if he had suddenly fall- 
en into a nest of briars. It was with the utmost difficulty we 
could prevent Scipio from pummelling the dreaded wizard to 
death. 

“ What’s the matter with your face, Sam ?” demanded Mr. 
Carrington. 

“ Hab humour, Mass Carrington ; bin trouble berry mosh wid 
break out in de skin.” 

“ Da shot, mossa — da shot. I hit um in crow jacket ; but whay’s 
de gray di’t ? Ha ! mossa, look yer ; dis de black coat ob Mass 
Jim’son dat Gull ah Sam hab on. He no wear he jacket with gray 
patch. Da’s make de difference.” 

The magician from St. Matthew’s now came up, and our sur 
prise was increased when we saw him extend his hand, with an 
appearance of the utmost good feeling and amity, to the rival he 
had just overcome. 

“ Well, brudder Sam, how you come on ?” 

The other looked at him doubtfully, and with a countenance in 
which we saw, or fancied, a mingling expression of fear and hos- 
tility ; the latter being evidently restrained by the other. H*» 


THE LAZY CROW 


359 

gave his hand, however, to the grasp of Methuselah, but-said no 
thing. 

“ 1 will come take supper rvid you to-night, brudder Sam,” con- 
tinued the wizard of St. Matthew’s, with as much civility as if 
he spoke to the most esteemed friend under the sun. “ Scip, boy, 
you kin go to you mossa work — you quite well ob dis bus’ness.” 

Scipio seemed loth to leave the company while there appeared 
something yet to be done, and muttered half aloud, 

“ You no ax Gullah Sam, wha’ da’ he bin do in de bay.” 

“ Psha, boy, go ’long to you cornfiel’ — enty I know,” replied 
Methuselah. “Gullah Sam bin ’bout he own bus’ness, I s’pose. 
Brudder, you kin go home now, and get you tings ready for sup- 
per. I will come see you to-night.” 

It was in this manner that the wizard of St. Matthew’s was dis- 
posed to dismiss both the patient and his persecutor ; but here the 
master of Scipio interposed. 

“Not so fast, Methuselah. If this fellow, Sam, has been play- 
ing any of his tricks upon my people, as you seem to have taken 
for granted, and as, indeed, very clearly appears, he must not be 
let off so easily. I must punish him before he goes.” 

“ You kin punish urn more dan me ?” was the abrupt, almost 
stern inquiry of the wizard. 

There was something so amusing as well as strange in the 
whole business, something so ludicrous in the wo-begone visage 
of Sam, that we pleaded with Mr. Carrington that the whole case 
should be left to Methuselah ; satisfied that as he had done so well 
hitherto, there was no good reason, nor was it right, that he should 
be interfered with. We saw the two shake hands and part, and 
ascertained from Scipio that he himself was the guest of Gullah 
Sam, at the invitation of Methuselah, to a very good supper that 
night of pig and Opossum. Scipio described the affair as having 
gone off very well, but he chuckled mightily as he dwelt upon the 
face of Sam, which, as he said, by night, was completely raw 
from the inveterate scratching to which he had been compelled to 
subject it during the whole day. Methuselah the next morning 
departed, having received, as his reward, twenty dollars from the 
master, and a small yocket Bible from the young mistress of the 
negro; and to tbir day, there is not a negro in the surrounding 


360 


v 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


country — and many of the whites are of the same way of think 
ing — who does not believe that Scipio was bewitched by Gullaf 
Sam, and that the latter was shot in the face, while in the shape 
of a common crow in the cornfield, by the enchanted shot pro- 
vided by the wizard of St. Matthew’s for the hands of the other. 

The writer of this narrative, for the sake of vitality and dra- 
matic 'force, alone, has made himself a party to its progress. The 
material has been derived as much from the information of others, 
as from his own personal experience ; though it may be as well to 
add, that superstition among the negroes is almost as active to 
this day, in the more secluded plantations, as it was prior to the 
revolution. Nor is it confined to the negro only. An instance 
occurred only a few years ago, — the facts of which were given 
me by a gentleman of unquestionable veracity, — in which one of 
his poor, uneducated white neighbours, labouring under a pro 
tracted, and perhaps, novel form of disease, fancied himself the 
victim of a notorious witch or wizard in his own district, ana 
summoned to his cure the rival wizard of another. Whether the 
controversy was carried in the manner of that between Gullah 
Sam and Methuselah, I cannot say ; nor am I sure that the con- 
quest was achieved by the wizard summoned. My authorities 
are no less good than various, for the proces necromantique, as de- 
tailed above. It may be that I have omitted some of tj v* mum- 
mery that seemed profane or disgusting ; for the rest •• 

“ I vouch not for the truth, d’ye see, 

But tell the tale as ’twas told to me 1 


CALOYA; OR. THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


3 ( 1 


CALOYA; 

OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER 


CHAPTER I. 

When I was a boy, it was the custom of the Catawba Indians 
—then reduced to a pitiful remnant of some four hundred per- 
sons, all told — to come down, at certain seasons, from their far 
Domes in the interior, to the seaboard, bringing to Charleston a 
little stock of earthen pots and pans, skins and other small mat- 
ters, which they bartered in the city for such commodities as 
were craved by their tastes, or needed by their condition. They 
did not, however, bring their pots and pans from the nation, bu 
descending to the low counfry empty-handed, in groups or fami- 
lies, they squatted down on the rich clay lands along the Edistq 
raised their poles, erected their sylvan tents, and there establisheQ 
themselves in a temporary abiding place, until their simple pot- 
teries had yielded them a sufficient supply of wares with which 
to throw themselves into the market. Their productions had their 
value to the citizens, and, for many purposes, were considered by 
most of the worthy housewives of the past generation, to be far 
superior to any other. I remember, for example, that it was a 
confident faith among the old ladies, that okra soup was always in- 
ferior if cooked in any but an Indian pot ; and my own impres- 
sions make me not unwilling to take sides with the old ladies on 
this particular tenet. Certainly, an iron vessel is one of the last 
which should be employed in the preparation of this truly south- 
ern dish. But this aside. The wares of the Indians were not ill 
made, nor unseemly to the eye. They wrought with much clean- 
er hands than they usually carried ; and if their vases were 


362 


'l HE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


sometimes unequal in their proportions, and uncouth in their forms, 
these defects were more than compensated by their freedom from 
flaws and their general capaciousness and strength. Wanting, 
perhaps, in the loveliness and perfect symmetry of Etruscan art, 
still they were not entirely without pretensions of their own The 
ornamental enters largely into an Indian’s idea of the useful, and 
his taste pours itself out lavishly in the peculiar decorations which 
he bestows upon his wares. Among his first purchases when he 
goes to the great city, are vermilion, umber, and other ochres, 
together with sealing wax of all colours, green, red, blue and yel- 
low. With these he stains his pots and pans until the eye be- 
comes sated with a liberal distribution of flowers, leaves, vines 
and stars, which skirt their edges, traverse their sides, and com- 
pletely illuminate their externals. He gives them the same orna- 
ment which he so judiciously distributes over his own face, and 
the price of the article is necessarily enhanced to the citizen, by 
the employment of materials which the latter would much rather 
not have at all upon his purchases. This truth, however, an In- 
dian never will learn, and so long as I can remember, he has still 
continued to paint his vessels, though he cannot but see that the 
least decorate^ are those which are always the first disposed of. 
Still, as his stock is usually much smaller than the demand for it, 
and as he soon gets rid of it, there is no good reason which he 
can perceive why he should change the tastes which preside 
over his potteries. 

Things are greatly altered now-a-days, in these as in a thou- 
sand other particulars. The Catawbas seldom now descend to 
the seaboard. They have lost the remarkable elasticity of char- 
acter which peculiarly distinguished them among the aboriginal 
nations, and, in declining years and numbers, not to speak of the 
changing circumstances of the neighbouring country, the ancient 
potteries are almost entirely abandoned. A change has taken 
place among the whites, scarcely less melancholy than that which 
has befallen the savages. Our grandmothers of the present day 
no longer fancy the simple and rude vessels in which the old 
dames took delight. We are for Sevre’s Porcelain, and foreign 
goods wholly, and I am saddened by the reflection that I have 
seen the last of the Indian pots. I am afraid, henceforward, that 


CALOYA ; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER, 363 


my okra soup will only be made in vessels from Brummagem ; 
nay, even now, as it comes upon the table, dark, dingy and dis- 
coloured to my eye, I think I see unequivocal tokens of metallic 
influence upon the mucilaginous compound, and remember with 
a sigh, the glorious days of Catawba pottery. New fashions, as 
usual, and conceited refinements, have deprived us of old pleasures 
and solid friends. A generation hence, and the fragment of an 
Indian pot will be a relic, a treasure, which the lover of the an- 
tique will place carefully away upon the upper shelf of the sanc- 
tum. , secure from the assaults of noisy children and very tidy 
housekeepers, and honoured in the eyes of all worthy- minded 
persons, as the sole remaining trophy of a time when there was 
perfection in one, at least, of the achievements of the culinary art. 
I am afraid that I have seen the last of the Indian pots ! 

But let me avoid this melancholy reflection. Fortunately, my 
narrative enables me to do so. It relates to a period when this 
valuable manufacture was in full exercise, and, if not encouraged 
by the interference of government, nor sought after by a foreign 
people, was yet in possession of a patronage quite as large as it 
desired. To arrive at this important period we have only to go 
back twenty years — a lapse made with little difficulty by most 
persons, and yet one which involves many and more trying changes 
and vicissitudes than any of us can contemplate with equanimity. 
The spring season had set in with the sweetest of countenances, 
and the Catawbas, in little squads and detachments, were soon 
under way with all their simple equipments on their backs for 
the lower country. They came down, scattering themselves along 
the Edisto, in small bodies wnich pursued their operations inde- 
pendently of each other. In this distribution they were probably 
governed by the well known policy of the European Gipseys, 
who find it much easier, in this way, to assess the several neigh- 
bourhoods which they honour, and obtain their supplies without 
provoking apprehension and suspicion, than if they were, en masse, 
to concentrate themselves on any one plantation. Their camps 
might be found in famed loam-spots, from the Eutaws down to 
Parker’s Ferry, on the Edisto, and among the numerous swamps 
that lie at the head of Ashley River, and skirt the Wassamasaw 
country. Harmless usually, and perfectly inoffensive, they were 


36 4 


THE WIGWAM AND THE GABItf. 


seldom repelled or resisted, even when they made their camp 
contiguously to a planter’s settlements ; though, at such periods, 
the proprietor had his misgivings that his poultry yard suffered 
from other enemies than the Wild- cat, and his hogs from an as- 
sailant as unsparing as the Alligator. The overseer, in such 
cases, simply kept a sharper lookout than ever, though it was not 
often that any decisive consequences followed his increased vigi 
lance. If the Indians were at any time guilty of appropriation, 
it was not often that they suffered themselves to be brought to con- 
viction. Of all people, they, probably, are the most solicitous to 
obey the scripture injunction, and keep the right hand from any 
unnecessary knowledge of the doings of the left. 


CALOYA: OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


3 (jo 


CHAPTER II. 

One morning, early in this pleasant season, the youthful pro. 
prietor of a handsome plantation in the neighbourhood of the Ash- 
ley River, might have been seen taking his solitary breakfast, at 
a moderately late hour, in the great hall of his family mansion. 
He was a tall, fine-looking young man, with quick, keen, lively 
gray eyes, that twinkled with good humour and a spirit of playful 
indulgence. A similar expression marked his features in general, 
and lessened the military effect of a pair of whiskers, of which 
the display was too lavish to be quite becoming. He had but 
recently come into possession of his property, which had been 
under the guardianship of an uncle. His parents had been cut 
off by country fever while he was yet a child, and, as an only son, 
he found, at coming of age, that his estates were equally ample 
and well managed. He was one of those unfortunate young 
bachelors, whose melancholy loneliness of condition is so apt to 
arrest the attention, and awaken the sympathies of disinterested 
damsels, and all considerate mothers of unappropriated daughters, 
who are sufficiently well-informed in scripture authority, to know 
that “ it is not meet for man to be alone.” But young Col. Gil- 
lison was alone, and continued, in spite of good doctrine, to be 
alone for several long years after. Into the causes which led to 
this strange and wilful eccentricity, it forms no part of our object 
to inquire. Our story does not so much concern the master of 
the plantation as one of his retainers, whom the reader will please 
to imagine that he has seen, more than once, glancing his eye im- 
patiently from the piazza through the window, into the apartment, 
awaiting the protracted moment when his young master should 
descend to his breakfast. This was a stout negro fellow, of port- 
ly figure and not uncomely countenance. He was well made 
and tall, and was sufficiently conscious of his personal attractions, 
to take all pains to exhibit them in the most appropriate costume 
and attitude. His pantaloons were of very excellent nankin, and 


366 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN. 


his coat, made of seersucker, was one of the most picturesque 
known to the southern country. It was fashioned after the In- 
dian hunting shirt, and formed a very neat and well-fitting frock, 
which displayed the broad shoulders and easy movements of 
Mingo — for that was the negro’s name — to the happiest advantage. 

Mingo was the driver of the estate. The driver is a sort of drill- 
sergeant to the overseer, who may be supposed to be the Captain. 
He gets the troops in line, divides them into squads, sees to their 
equipments, and prepares them for the management and com- 
mand of the superiors. On the plantation of Col. Gillison, there 
was at this time no overseer ; and, in consequence, the import- 
ance of Mingo was not a little increased, as he found himself 
acting in the highest executive capacity known to his experience. 
Few persons of any race, colour, or condition, could have had 
a more elevated idea of their own pretensions than our present 
subject. He trod the earth very much as its Lord — the sovereign 
shone out in every look and movement, and the voice of supreme 
authority spoke in every tone. This feeling of superiority im- 
parted no small degree of grace to his action, which, accordingly, 
would have put to shame the awkward louting movements of one 
half of those numbed and cramped figures which serve at the 
emasculating counters of the trading city. Mingo was a Her- 
cules to the great majority of these ; and, with his arms akimbo, 
his head thrown back, one foot advanced, and his hands, at inter- 
vals, giving life to his bold, and full-toned utterance, he would 
startle with a feeling not unlike that of awe, many of those bent, 
bowed and mean-looking personages who call themselves freemen, 
and yet have never known the use, either of mind or muscle, in 
one twentieth part the degree which had been familiar to this 
slave. 

At length, after a delay which evidently did not diminish the 
impatience of Mingo, his young master descended to the breakfast 
room. His appearance was the signal for the driver to enter the 
same apartment, which he accordingly did without pause or 
preparation. 

“ Well, Mingo,” said the young man, with lively tones — 
“ what’s the word this morning ? Your face seems full of news! 
and now that I consider you closely, it seems to have smitten your 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


367 


body also. You look fuller than I have ever seen you before 
Out with your harden, man, before you burst. What sow’s lit- 
tered — what cow’s cast her calf — how many panels in the fence 
are burnt — how many chickens has the hawk carried off this 
morning? What! none of these?” he demanded, as the shake 
of the head, on the part of his hearer, which followed every dis- 
tinct suggestion of the speaker, disavowed any subject of com- 
plaint from those current evils which are the usual subject of a 
planter’s apprehension. “ What’s, the matter, then, Mingo ?” 

“ Matter ’nough, Mossa, ef vve don’t see to it in time,” respond- 
ed Mingo, with a becoming gravity. “ It’s a needcessity,” a dri- 
ver’s English is sometimes terribly emphatic, “ it’s a needcessity, 
Sir, to see to other cattle, besides hogs and cows. The chickens 
too, is intended to, as much as they wants ; and I ha’nt lost a 
panel by fire, eber sence Col. Parker’s hands let the fire get ’way 
by Murray’s Thick. There, we did lose a smart chance, and 
put us back mightily, I reckon ; but that was in old mossa’stime, 
and we had Mr. Groning, den, as the obershar — so, you see, Sir, 
I couldn’t be considered bound ’sponsible for that; sence I’ve had 
the management, there ha’nt been any loss on my plantation of 
any kind. My fences ha’nt been burn, my cattle’s on the rise, 
and as for my hogs and chickens, I reckon there’s not’ a planta- 
tion on the river that kin make so good a count at Christmas. 
But ” 

“ Well, well, Mingo,” said the youthful proprietor, who knew 
the particular virtue of the driver, and dreaded that his tongue 
should get such headway as to make it unmanageable — “ if 
there’s no loss, and no danger of loss — if the hogs and chickens 
are right, and the cattle and the fences — we can readily defer 
the business until after breakfast. Here, boy, hand up the coffee.” 

“ Stop a bit, Mossa — it aint right — all aint riglit — ” said the 
impressive Mingo — “ it’s a business of more transaction and de- 
portance than the cattle and the fences — it’s ” 

“ Well, out with it then, Mingo — there’s no need for a long 
preamble. What is the trouble ?” 

“ Why, Sir, you mus’ know,” began the driver, in no degree 
oleased to be compelled to give his testimony in any but his own 
fashion, and drawling out his accents accordingly, so as to in- 


368 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


crease the impatience of his master, and greatly to elongate the 
sounds of his own voice — sounds which he certainly esteemed to 

be among the most musical in nature. “ You mus’ know den, 

Sir, that Limping Jake came to me a while ago, tells me as how, 
late last night, when he was a-hunting ’possum, he came across 
an Indian camp, down by the ‘ Red Gulley.’ They had a fire, 
and was a-putting up the poles, and stripping the bark to cover 
them. Jake only seed two of them ; but it’s onpossible that they’ll 
stick at that. Before we know anything, they’ll be spreading 
like varmints all about us, and putting hands and teeth on every 
thing, without so much as axing who meut. be the owner.” 

“ Well, Mingo, what of all this ?” demanded the master, as the 
driver came to a pause, and looked volumes of increased dignity, 
while he concluded the intelligence which he meant to be as- 
tounding. 

“ Wha’ of all this, Mossa ! — Why, Sir, de’rs ’nough of it. Ef 
the hogs and the chickens did’nt go before, they’ll be very apt to 
go now, with these red varmints about us.” 

“ Surely, if you don’t look after them ; but that’s your busi- 
ness, Mingo. You must see to the poultry houses yourself, at 
night, and keep a close watch over these squatters so long as they 
are pleased to stay.” 

“ But, Mossa, I aintgvvine to let ’em stay ! To my idee, that’s 
not the wisdom of the thing. Now, John Groning, the obershar 
of old mossa — though I don’t much reprove of his onderstanding 
in other expects, yet he tuk the right reason, when he druv them 
off, bag and baggage, and wouldn’t let hoof nor hide of ’em stretch 
off upon the land. I ha’nt seen these red varmints, myself, but I 
come to let you know, that I was gwine out to asperse, and send 
’em off, under ^he shake of a cowhide, and then there’s no farther 
needeessity to keep a Iook out upon them. I’m not willing to let 
such critters hang about my plantation.” 

The reader has already observed, that an established driver 
speaks always of his charge as if it were a possession of his own. 
With Mingo, as with most such, it was my horse, my land, my ox, 
and my ass, and all that is mine. His tone was much subdued, 
as he listened to the reply of his master, uttered in accents serne- 
thing sterner than he had been wont to hear. 


CALOVA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 36$ 

“ I’m obliged to you, Mingo, for coming to inform me of youi 
intentions. Now, I command you to do nothing of this sort. Lei 
these poor devils remain where they are, and do you attend to 
your duty, which is to see that they do no mischief. If I mistake 
not, the ‘ Red Gulley’ is the place where they have been getting 
their clay ever since my grandfather settled this plantation.” 

“ That’s a truth, Sir, but ” 

“ Let them get it there still. I prefer that they should do so, 
even though I may lose a hog now and then, and suffer some de- 
crease in the fowl yard. I am pleased that they should come to 
the accustomed place for their clay ” 

“ But, Sir, only last year, John Groning druv ’em off.” 

“ I am the better pleased then, at the confidence they repose 
in me. Probably they know that John Groning can no longer 
drive them off. I am glad that they give me an opportunity to treat 
them more justly. They can do me little harm, and as their 
fathers worked in the same holes, I am pleased that they, too, 
should work there. I will not consent to their expulsion for such 
small evils as you mention. But I do not mean, Mingo, that they 
shall be suffered to infest the plantation, or to do any mischief. 
You will report to me, if you see any thing going wrong, and to 
do this while they stay ; you will look very closely into their 
proceedings. I, myself, will have an eye upon them, and if there 
be but two of them, and they seem sober, I will give them an ah 
lowance of corn while they stay.” 

“ Well, but Mossa, there’s no needcessity for that, and consider- 
ing that the Corn-House aint oberfull — ” 

“ No more at present, Mingo. I will see into the matter du- 
ring the day. Meanwhile, you can ride out to the ‘ Red Gul- 
ley,’ see these people, and say to them, from me, that, so long as 
they behave themselves civilly, they may remain. I am not sat- 
isfied that these poor wretches should be denied camping ground 
and a little clay, on a spot which their people once possessed ex- 
clusively. I shall probably see them after you, and will then be 
better able to determine upon their deserts.” 


25 


370 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER III 

Mingo retired from the conference rather chap-fallen. He 
was not so well satisfied with the result of his communication. 
He had some hope to commend himself more than ever to his 
youthful master by the zeal and vigilance which he had striven to 
display. Disappointed in this hope, he was still further mortified 
lo perceive how little deference was shown him by one, whose 
youthful judgment he hoped to direct, and of whose inexperience 
he had possibly some hope to take advantage. He loved to dis- 
play his authority, and sometimes seemed absolutely to fancy 
himself the proprietor, whose language of command he had ha- 
bituated himself to employ ; on the present occasion, he made his 
way from the presence of his master with no complacent feelings, 
and his displeasure vented itself very unequivocally upon a fa- 
vourite hound who lay at the foot of the outer steps, and whom he 
kicked off with a savage satisfaction, and sent howling to his 
kennel. A boy coming to him with a message from the kitchen, 
was received with a smart application of his wagon whip, and 
made to follow the example, if he did not exactly imitate the pe- 
culiar music of the hound. Mingo certainly made his exit in a 
rage. Half an hour after, he might have been seen, mounted on 
his marsh tacky, making tracks for the “ Red Gulley,’’ deter- 
mined, if he was not suffered to expel the intruders, at least, to 
show them that it was in his power, during their stay, to diminish 
very considerably the measure of their satisfaction. His wrath 
— like that of all consequential persons who feel themselves in the 
wrong, yet lack courage to be right — was duly warmed by nurs- 
ing ; and, pregnant with terrible looks and accents, he burst 
upon the little encampment at “ Red Gulley,” in a way that “ was 
a caution” to all evil doers ! 

The squatters had only raised one simple habitation of poles, 
and begun a second which adjoined it. The first was covered in 
with bushes, bark and saplings ; the second was slightly advan- 
ced, and the hatchet lay before it, in waiting for the hand by 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


371 


wrinyh it was to be completed. The embers of a recent fire were 
strewed in front of the former, and a lean cur — one of those gaunt, 
far sighted, keen nosed animals which the Indians employed ; 
dock tailed, short haired, bushy eyed — lay among the ashes, and 
did not offer to stir at the appearance of the terror- breathing 
Mingo. Still, though he moved not, his keen eyes followed the 
movements of the Driver with as jealous a glance as those of his 
owner would have dene ; while the former alighted from his 
horse, peered around the wigwam, and finally penetrated it. 
Here he saw nobody, and nothing to reward his scrutiny. Re- 
appearing from the hut, he hallooed with the hope 'of obtaining 
some better satisfaction, but his call was unanswered. The dog 
alone raised his head, looked up at the impatient visitor, and, as 
if satisfied with a single glance, at once resumed his former lux- 
urious position. Such stolidity, bad enough in an Indian, was 
still more impertinent in an Indian dog; and, forgetting every 
thing but his consequence, and the lage with which he had set 
out from home, Mingo, without more ado, laid his lash over the 
animal with no measured violence of stroke. It was then that 
he found an answer to his challenge. A clump of myrtles open- 
ed at a little distance behind him, and the swarthy red cheeks of 
an Indian man appeared through the aperture, to which his voice 
summoned the eyes of the assailant. 

“ You lick dog,” said the owner, with accents which were rather 
soft and musical than stern, “ dog is good, what for you lick dog ?” 

Such a salutation, at the moment, rather startled the imperious 
driver ; not that he was a timid fellow, or that his wrath had in the 
least degree abated ; but that he was surprised completely. Had 
the voice reached him from the woods in front, he would have 
been better prepared for it ; but, coming from the rear, his imagi- 
nation made it startling, and increased its solemnity. He turned 
at the summons, and, at the same moment, the Indian, making 
his way through the myrtles, advanced toxvard the negro. There 
was nothing in his appearance to awaken the apprehensions of 
the latter. The stranger was small and slight of person, and 
evidently beyond the middle period of life. Intemperance, too, 
the great curse of the Indian who has long been a dweller in con- 
tact with the Anglo-Saxon settler — (the French, par par enthese, 


372 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


seem to have always civilized the Indian without making him a 
drunkard) — had made its ravages upon his form, and betrayed it. 
self in every lineament of his face. His step, even while he ap- 
proached the negro, was unsteady from the influence of liquor ; 
and as all these signs of feebleness became obvious to the eye of 
Mingo, his courage, and with it his domineering insolence of char- 
acter, speedily returned to him. 

“ Lick dog !” he exclaimed, as he made a movement to the 
Catawba, and waved his whip threateningly, “ lick dog, and lick 
Indian too.” 

“ Lick Indian — get knife !” was the quiet answer of the savage, 
whose hand, at the same instant, rested upon the horn handle of 
his couteau de chasse, where it stuck in the deerskin belt that 
girdled his waist. 

“ Who’s afeard ?” said Mingo, as he clubbed his whip and 
threw the heavy loaded butt of it upon his shoulder. The slight 
frame of the Indian moved his contempt only ; and the only cir- 
cumstance that prevented him from instantly putting his threat 
into execution, was the recollection of that strange interest which 
his master had taken in the squatters, and his positive command 
that they should not be ill treated or expelled. While he hesita- 
ted, however, the Catawba gave him a sufficient excuse, as he 
fancied, for putting his original intention into execution. The 
threatening attitude, partial advance of the foe, together with the 
sight of the heavy handled whip reversed and hanging over him, 
had, upon the mind of the savage, all the effect of an absolute 
assault. He drew his knife in an instant, and flinging himself 
forward to the feet of the negro, struck an upright blow with his 
weapon, which would have laid the entrails of his enemy open 
to the light, but for the promptitude of the latter, who, receding 
at the same instant, avoided and escaped the blow. In the next 
moment, levelling his whip at the head of the stooping Indian, he 
would most probably have retorted it with fatal effect, but for an 
unlooked for interruption. His arms were both grappled by some 
one from behind, and, for the perilous moment, effectually pre- 
vented from doing any harm. With some difficulty, he shook off* 
the last comer, who, passing in front, between the hostile parties, 
proved to be an Indian woman, 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


373 


CHAPTER IV. 

Before this discovery was fairly made, the wrath of Mingo 
had been such as to render him utterly forgetful of the commands 
of his master. He was now ready for the combat to the knife ; 
and had scarcely shaken himself free from his second assailant, 
before he advanced with redoubled resolution upon the first. He, 
by the way, equally aroused, stood ready, with closed lips, keen 
eye and lifted knife, prepared for the encounter. All the pecu- 
liarities of the Indian shone out in the imperturbable aspect, com- 
posed muscles, and fiery gleaming eyes of the now half-sobered 
savage ; who, as if conscious of the great disparity of strength be- 
tween himself and foe, was mustering all his arts of war, all his 
stratagems and subtleties, to reduce those inequalities from which 
he had every thing to apprehend. But they were not permitted 
to fight. The woman now threw herself between them ; and, at 
her appearance, the whip of Mingo fell from his shoulder, and 
his mood became instantly pacific. She was the wife of the 
savage, but certainly young enough to have been his daughter. 
She was decidedly one of the comeliest squaws that had evei 
enchanted the eyes of the Driver, and her life-darting eyes, the 
emotion so visible in her face, and the boldness of her action, as 
she passed between their weapons, with a hand extended toward 
each, was such as to inspire him with any other feelings than 
those which possessed him towards the squatters. Mingo was 
susceptible of the tender influences of love. As brave as Julius 
Caesar, in his angry mood, he was yet quite as pliant as Mark 
Antony in the hour of indulgence ; and the smile of one of the 
ebon damsels of his race, at the proper moment, has frequently 
saved her and others from the penalties incurred by disobedience 
of orders, or unfinished tasks. Nor were his sentiments towards 
the sex confined to those of his master’s plantation only. He 
penetrated the neighbouring estates with the excursive and reck- 
jess nature of the Prince of Troy, and, more than once, in conse- 


374 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


quence of this habit, had the several plantations rung with wars, 
scarcely less fierce, though less protracted- than those of Ilium. 
His success with the favoured sex was such as to fill him with a 
singular degree of confidence in his own prowess and personal 
attractions. Mingo knew that he was a handsome fellow, and 
fancied a great deal more. He was presumptuous enough — 
surely there are no white men so ! — to imagine that it was scarcely 
possible for any of the other sex, in their sober senses, to withstand 
him. This impression grew singularly strong, as he gazed upon 
the Indian woman. So bright an apparition had not met his eyes 
for many days. His loQal associations were all staling— the 
women he was accustomed to behold, had long since lost the 
charm of novelty in his sight — and, with all his possessions, Mingo, 
like Alexander of Maeedon, was still yearning for newer con- 
quests. The first glance at the Indian woman, assured his 
roving fancies that they had not yearned in vain. He saw in 
her a person whom he thought destined to provoke his jaded 
tastes anew, and restore his passions to their primitive ascendancy 
The expression of his eye softened as he surveyed her. Wat 
fled from it like a discomfited lion ; and if love, 'squatting quietly 
down in his place, did not look altogether so innocent as the lamb, 
he certainly promised not to roar so terribly. He now looked 
nothing but complacence on both the strangers ; on the woman 
oecause of her own charms; on the man because of the charms 
which he possessed in her. But such was not the expression in 
the countenance of the Indian. He was not to be moved by the 
changes which he beheld in his enemy, but still kept upon him a 
wary watch, as if preparing for the renewal of the combat. 
There was also a savage side-glance which his keen fiery eyes 
threw upon the woman, which seemed to denote some little anger 
towards herself. This did not escape the watchful glance of our 
gay Lothario, who founded upon it some additional hope of success 
in his schemes. Meanwhile, the woman was not idle nor silent. 
She did not cQntent herself with simply going between the com- 
batants, but her tongue was active in expostulation with her 
sovereign, in a dialect not the less musical to the ears of Mingo 
because he did not understand a word of it. The tones were 
sweet, and he felt that they counselled peace and good will to the 


CALOYA; OH, THE LOVES Oi« THE DRIVER. 


375 


warrior. But the latter, so far as he could comprehend the 
expression of his face,* and the mere sounds of his brief, guttural 
replies, had, like Sempronius, a voice for war only. Something, 
too, of a particular harshness in his manner, seemed addressed to 
the woman alone. Her answers were evidently those of depre- 
cation and renewed entreaty ; but they did not seem very much 
to influence her Lord and master, or to soften his mood. Ming 3 
grew tired of a controversy in which he had no share, and fancied, 
with a natural self-complacency, that he could smooth down some 
of its difficulties. 

“Look yer, my friend,” he exclaimed, advancing, with ex-, 
tended hand, while a volume of condescension was written upon 
his now benignant features— “ Look yer, my friend, it’s no U9e 
to be at knife-draw any longer. I didn’t mean to hurt you when I 
raised the whip, and as for the little touch I gin the dog, why 
that’s neither here nor there. The dog’s more easy to squeal 
than most dogs I know. Ef I had killed him down to the brush 
at his tail eend, he could’nt ha’ holla’d more. What’s the sense 
to fight for dogs ? Here — here’s my hand — we won’t quarrel any 
longer, and, as for fighting, I somehow never could fight when 
there was a woman standing by. It’s onbecoming, 1 may say, 
and so here’s for peace between us. Will you shake?” 

The proffered hand was not taken. The Indian still kept 
aloof with the natural caution of his race; but he seemed to 
relax something of his watchfulness, and betrayed less of that 
still and deliberate anxiety which necessarily impresses itself 
upon the most courageous countenance in the moment of expected 
conflict. Again the voice of the woman spoke in tones of recon- 
ciliation, and, this time, words of broken English were audible, in 
what she said, to the ears of the Driver. Mingo fancied that he 
had never heard better English — of which language he considered 
himself no humble proficient— nor more sweetly spoken by any 
lips. The savage darted an angry scowl at the speaker in return, 
uttered but a single stern word in the Catawba, and pointed his 
finger to the wigwam as he spoke. Slowly, the woman turned 
away and disappeared within its shelter. Mingo began to be 
impatient of the delay, probably because of her departure, and 
proceeded, with more Barnestness than before, to renew his propo- 


376 


the wigwam and the cabin. 


sition for peace. The reply of the Indian, betrayed all the tend* 
city of his race in remembering threats and injuries. 

“ Lick dog, lick Indian ; lick Indian, get knife — hah !” 

“ Who’s afeard !” said the Driver. “ Look yer, my friend : 
’taint your knife, let me tell you, that’s gwine to make me turn 
tail on any chicken of your breed. You tried it, and what did 
you git ? Why, look you, if it hadn’t been for the gripe of the 
gal — maybe she’s your daughter, mout-be your sister? — but it’s 
all one — ef it hadn’t been her gripe which fastened my arm, the 
butt of my whip would have flattened you, until your best friend 
couldn’t ha’ said where to look for your nose. You’d ha’ been 
all face after that, smooth as bottom land, without e’er a snag or 
a stump ; and you’d have passed among old acquaintance for 
any body sooner than yourself. But I’m no brag dog — nor I 
don’t want to be a biting dog, nother ; when there’s nothing to 
fight for. Let’s be easy. P’rhaps you don’t feel certain whose 
plantation you’re on here. Mout be if you know’d, you’d find 
out it wa’nt altogether the best sense to draw knife on Mingo 
Gillison. — Why, look you, my old boy, I’m able to say what I 
please here — I makes the law for this plantation — all round 
about, so far as you can see from the top of the tallest of them 
’ere pine trees, I’m the master ! I look ’pon the pine land field, 
and I say, * Tom, Peter, Ned, Dick, Jack, Ben, Toney, Sam — ■ 
boys — you must ’tack that field to-morrow.’ I look ’pon the 
swamp field, and I say to ’nother ten, ‘ boys, go there !’ — high 
land and low land, upland and swamp, corn and cotton, rice and 
rye, all ’pen ’pon me for order ; and jis’ as Mingo say, jis’ so 
they do. Well, wha’ after dat ! It stands clear to the leetlest 
eye, that ’taint the best sense to draw knife on Mingo Gillison ; 
here, on he own ground. ’Spose my whip can’t do the mischief, 
it’s a needcessity only to draw a blast out of this ’ere horn, and 
there’ll be twenty niggers ’pon you at once, and ebery one of dem 
would go off wid ’he limb. But I ain’t a hard man, my fren’, ef 
you treat me softly. You come here to make your clay pots and 
pans. Your people bin use for make ’em here for sebenty 
nine — mout-be forty seben year — who knows ? Well, you can 
make ’em here, same as you been usen to make ’em, so long as 
you ’habe you’self like a gemplemans. But none of your 


377 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 

J 

knife-work, le’ me tell you. I’ll come ebery day and look ’pon 
you. ’Mout-be, I’ll trade with you for some of your pots. 
Clay-pot is always best for bile hom’ny.” 

We have put in one paragraph the sum and substance of a 
much longer discourse which Mingo addressed to his Indian 
guest. The condescensions of the negro had a visible effect upon 
the squatter, the moment that he was made to comprehend the 
important station which the former enjoyed ; and when the Indian 
woman was fairly out of sight, Richard Knuckles, for such was the 
English name of the Catawba, gradually restored his knife to his 
belt, and the hand which had been withheld so long, was finally given 
in a gripe of amity to the negro, who shook it as heartily as if 
he had never meditated towards the stranger any but the most 
hospitable -intentions. He was now as affectionate and indulgent, 
as he had before shown himself hostile ; and the Indian, after a 
brief space, relaxed much of the hauteur which distinguishes the 
deportment of the Aborigines. But Mingo was pained to observe 
that Richard never once asked him into his wigwam, and, while he 
remained, that the squaw never once came out of it. This reserve 
betokexied some latent apprehension of mischief ; and the whole 
thoughts of our enamoured Driver were bent upon ways and 
means for overcoming this austerity, and removing the doubts of 
the strangers. He contrived to find out that Caloya — such was 
the woman’s name — was the wife of the man ; and he imme- 
diately jumped to a conclusion which promised favourably for his 
schemes. “ An ole man wid young wife!” said he, with a 
complacent chuckle, “ Ah, ha ! he’s afeard ! — well, he hab’ good 
’casion for fear’d, when Mingo Gillison is ’pon de ground.” 


378 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER V. 

But though warmed with these encouraging fancies, our con 
ceited hero found the difficulties to be much more numerous and 
formidable than he had anticipated. The woman was as shy as 
the most modest wife could have shown herself, and no Desde- 
mona could have been more certainly true to her liege lord. 
Mingo paid no less than three visits that day to the wigwam, and 
all without seeing her, except at his first coming, when she was 
busied with, but retired instantly from, her potteries, in which 
Richard Knuckles took no part, and seemingly no interest. Lazy, 
like all his race, he lay in the sun, on the edge of the encamp- 
ment, with an eye but half open, but that half set directly upon 
the particular movements of his young wife. Indians are gene- 
rally assumed to be cold and insensible, and some doubts have , 
been expressed, whether their sensibilities could ever have been 
such as to make them open to the influence of jealousy. These 
notions are ridiculous enough ; and prove nothing half so deci- I 
dedly as the gross ignorance of those who entertain them. Some- 1 
thing, of course, is to be allowed for the natural differences « 
between a civilized and savage people. Civilization is prolific, 
barbarism sterile. The dweller in the city has more various 
appetites and more active passions than the dweller in the camp ; 
and the habits of the hunter, lead, above all things, to an intense 
gathering up of all things in self ; a practice which tends, neces- y 
sarily, to that sort of independence which is, perhaps, neither 
more nor less than one aspect of barrenness. But, while the 
citizen is allowed to have more various appetites and intenser pas- 
sions in general, the Indian is not without those which, indeed, 
are essential to constitute his humanity. That he can love, is 
undeniable — that he loves with the ardour of the white, may be 
more questionable. That he can love, however, with much 
intensity, may fairly be inferred from the fact that his hate is 
subtle and is nourished with traditional tenacity and reverence. 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


379 


But the argument against the sensibility of the savage, in his 
savage state, even if true, would not apply to the same animal in 
his degraded condition, as a borderer of the white settlements. 
Degraded by beastly habits, and deprived by them of the fiercer 
and warlike qualities of his ancestors, he is a dependent, (and 
jealousy is a creature of dependence) — a most wretched dependent, 
and that, too, upon his women — she who, an hundred years ago, 
was little other than his slave, and frequently his victim. In his 
own feebleness, he learns to esteem her strength ; and, in due 
degree with his own degradation, is her rise into importance in 
his sight. But it does not matter materially to our present nar- 
rative, whether men shtfuld, or should not agree, as to the sensi- 
bilities of the savage to the tender passion. It is probable, that 
few warlike nations are very susceptible of love ; and as for the 
middle ages, which might be urged as an exception to the justice 
of this remark, Sismondi is good authority to show that Burke 
had but little reason to deplore their loss: “ Helas ! cet heroisme 
universel nous avons nomme la chevalerie, n’exisia jamais comme 
fictions brillantes I” There were no greater brutes than the 
warriors of the middle ages. 

Richard Knuckles, whether he loved his young wife or not, 
was certainly quite as jealous of her as Othello was of his. 
Not, perhaps, so much of her affections as of her deference ; and 
this, by the way, was also something of the particular form of 
jealousy under which the noble Moor suffered. The proud spirit 
chafes that another object should stand for a moment between his 
particular sunlight and himself. His jealousy had been awakened 
long before, and this led to his temporary separation from his 
tribe. Caloya, it may be added, yielded, without a murmur, to 
the caprices of her lord, to whom she had been given by hei 
father. She was as dutiful as if she loved him ; and, if conduct 
alone could be suffered to test the quality of virtue, her affection 
for him was quite as earnest, pure and eager, as that of the most 
devoted woman. That she could not love him, is a conclusion 
only to be drawn from the manifest inequalities between them, 
lie was old and brutal — a truly worthless, sottish savage — while 
she, if not a beauty ? was yet comely to the eye, very youthful, 


380 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


and, in comparison with Indian squaws in general, remarkably 
tidy in person, and good humoured in disposition. 

Our hero, Mingo, was not only persuaded that she could not 
love Knuckles, but he equally soon became convinced that she 
could be made to love himself. He left no opportunity untried to 
effect this desirable result ; and, after a most fatiguing trial, he 
succeeded so far in a part of his scheme as to beguile the hus- 
band into good humour if not blindness. Returning towards 
nightfall to the camp, Mingo brought with him a “ chunk-bottle” 
of whiskey, the potency of which, over the understanding of an 
Indian, he well knew ; and displaying his treasure to Knuckles, 
was invited by him, for the first time, with a grunt of cordiality, 
to enter the wigwam of the squatters. The whiskey while it 
lasted convinced Knuckles, that he had no better friend in the 
world than Mingo Gillison, and he soon became sufficiently 
blinded by its effects, to suffer the frequent and friendly glances 
of the Driver towards his wife, without discovering that they 
were charged with any especial signs of intelligence. Yet never 
was a more ardent expression of wilful devotion thrown into 
human eyes before. Mingo was something of an actor, and 
many an actor might have taken a goodly lesson of his art from 
the experienced Driver. He was playing Romeo, an original 
part always, to his own satisfaction. Tenderness, almost to tears, 
softened the fiery ardour of his glance, and his thick lips grew 
doubly thick, in the effort to throw into them an expression of 
devoted languor. But all his labour seemed to go for nothing 
— nay, for something worse than nothing — -in the eyes of the 
faithful wife. If her husband could not see the arts of the amo- 
rous negro, she would not see them ; and when, at supper, it 
sometimes became necessary that her eyes should loolt where the 
lover sat, the look which she gave him was stony and inexpressive 
— cold to the last degree ; and, having looked, it would be averted 
instantly with a haste, which, to a less confident person would 
have been vastly discouraging and doubtful. As it was, even 
the self-assured Mingo was compelled to acknowledge, in his 
mental soliloquy that night as he made his way homeward, that, 
so far his progress was not a subject of brag, and scarcely of 
satisfaction. The woman, he felt, had resisted his glances, or, 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


381 


which was much worse, had failed to see them. But this was 
owing, so he fancied, entirely to her caution and the natural 
dread which she had of her fiercely minded sovereign. Mingo 
retired to his couch that night to plan, and to dream of plans, for 
overcoming the difficulties in the way of his own, and, as he per- 
sisted in believing, the natural desires of Caloya. It may be 
stated in this place, that, under the new aspects which the squatters 
had assumed in his eyes, he did not think it necessary to make 
any very copious statement of his proceedings to his master ; but, 
after the fashion of certain public committees, when in difficulty 
among themselves, he wisely concluded to report progress and 
beg permission to sit again. 


*82 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ Dem ’ere Indians,” he said the next morning to his master — 
“ dem ’ere Indians — der’s only two ob ’em come yet, sir — I 
aint altogether sure about ’em — I has’n’t any exspecial ’spi- 
cion, sir, from what I seed yesterday, that they’s very honest 
in particklar, and then agen, I see no reasons that they aint hon- 
est. It mout be, they might steal a hen, sir, if she was reason- 
able to come at — it mput be, they mout eben go deeper into a 
hog ; — but then agen, it mout’n’t be after all, and it wouldn’t be 
right justice to say, tell a body knows for certain. There’s no 
telling yet, sir. An Indian, as I may say, naterally, is' honest or 
he aint honest ; — and there’s no telling which, sir, ’tell he steals 
something, or tell he goes off without stealing ; — and so all that 
kin be done, sir, is to find out if he’s a thief, or if he’s not a thief ; 
and I think, sir, I’m in a good way to git at the rights of the matter 
before worse comes to worser. As you say, Mossa, ips my busi- 
ness to see that you ain’t worsened by ’em.” 

Without insisting that Col. Gillison entirely understood the in- 
genious speech of his driver, we can at least assert, with some 
confidence, that he was satisfied with it. Of an indolent disposi- 
tion, the young master was not unwilling to be relieved from the 
trouble of seeing himself after the intruders ; and though he dis- 
missed the amorous Mingo with an assurance, that he would take 
an early opportunity to look into their camp, the cunning driver, 
who perhaps guessed very correctly on the subject of his master’s 
temperament, was fully persuaded that his own movements would 
suffer no interruption from the command or supervision of the 
other. Accordingly, ^allying s forth immediately after breakfast, 
he took his way to the encampment, where he arrived in time to 
perceive some fragments of a Catawba dejeune, which, while it 
awakened his suspicions, did not in any measure provoke his ap- 
petite. There were numerous small well-pieked bones, which 
might nave hern those of a squirrel, as Richard Knuckles some- 


CALOYA; Oil, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


383 


* 


what gratuitously alleged, or which might have been those of one 
of his master’s brood-hens, as Mingo Gillison half suspected. But, 
though he set forth with a declared resolve not to suffer his mas- 
ter’s interests to be “ worsened,” our driver did not seem to think 
it essential to this resolution to utter his suspicions, or to search 
more narrowly into the matter. He seemed to take for granted 
that Richard Knuckles had spoken nothing but the truth, and he 
himself showed nothing but civility. He had not made his visit 
without bringing with him a goodly portion of whiskey in his flask, 
well knowing that no better medium could be found for procuring 
the confidence and blinding the jealous eyes of the Indian. But 
he soon discovered that this was not his true policy, however 
much he had fancied in the first instance that it might sub- 
serve it. He soothed the incivilities of the Catawba, and 
warmed his indifference by the liquor, but he, at the same time, 
and from the same cause, made him stationary in the camp. So 
long as the whiskey lasted, the Indian would cling to the spot, 
and when it was exhausted he was unable to depart. The pros- 
pect was a bad one for the Driver that day in the camp of the squat- 
ters, since, though the woman went to her tasks without delay, 
and clung to them with the perseverance of the most devoted indus- 
try, the Hunter was neither able nor willing to set forth upon his. 
The bow was unbent and unslung, lying across his lap, and he, 
himself, leaning back against his tree, seemed to have no wish be- 
yond the continued possession of the genial sunshine in which 
he basked. In vain did Mingo, sitting beside him, cast his 
wistful eyes towards the woman who worked at a little dis- 
tance, and whom, while her husband was wakeful, he did 
not venture to approach. Something, he thought, might be 
done by signs, but the inflexible wife never once looked up 
from the clay vessel which her hands were employed to round 
— an inflexibility which the conceited negro ascribed not so 
much to her indifference to his claims, as to her fears of her 
savage husband. We must not forget to say that the tongue of 
the Oliver was seldom silent, however much his thoughts might be 
confused and his objects baffled. He had a faith in his own elo- 
quence, not unlike that of the gveater number of our young and pro- 
mising statesmen ; and did not doubt, though he could not speak 


384 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


to the woman directly, that much that lie did say would sail 
reach her senses, and make the desired impression. With this idea, 
it may be readily supposed that he said a great many things 
which were much better calculated to please her, than to meet the 
assent of her husband. 

“ Now,” for example, continuing a long dissertation on the 
physiological and psychological differences between his own and 
the Indian race, in which he strove to prove to the satisfaction of 
the Catawba, the infinite natural and acquired superiorities of the 
former , — “ Now,” said he, stretching his hand forth towards the 
toiling woman, and establishing his case, as he thought conclu- 
sively, by a resort to the argumentum ad hominem — “ now, you 
see, if that ’ere gal was my wife instead of your’n, Knuckles, da 
you think I’d let her extricate herself here in a br’iling sun, working 
her fingers off, and I lying down here in the grass a-doing nothing 
and only looking on ? No ! I’d turn in and give her good resistance ; 
’cause why, Knuckles ? ’Cause, you see, it’s not, I may say, a 
’spectable sight to see the woman doing all the work what’s a 
needcessity, and the man a-doing nothing. The woman warn’t 
made for hard work at all. My women I redulges — I never push- 
es ’em — I favours them all that I kin, and it goes agin me might- 
ily, I tell you, when it’s a needcessity to give ’em the lash. But 
I scores the men like old Harry. I gives them their desarbings ; 
and if so be the task ain’t done, let them look out for thick jack- 
ets. ’Twont be a common homespun thaf’ll keep off my cuts. I 
do not say that 1 overwork my people. That’s not the idee. My 
tasks is a’most too easy, and there’s not a nigger among ’em that 
can’t get through, if he’s exposed that way, by tree o’clock in de 
day. The women has their task, but they’re twice as easy, and 
then I don’t open both eyes when I’m looking to see if they’ve got 
through ’em. ’Tain’t often you hear my women in trivilation ; and, 
I know, it stands to reason what I’m telling you, that a black Gen- 
tlemen is always more ’spectable to a woman than an Indian. 
Dere’s your wife now, and dere’s you. She ain’t left' her busi- 
ness since I bin here, and you haint gone' to your’n, nor you ain’t 
gin her a drop of the whiskey. Not to say that a gal so young 
as that ought to drink whiskey and ohaw tobacco — but for the sake 
of compliment now, ’twas only right that you should ha’ ax her 


CALOYA; UR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


385 


to try a sup. But then for the working. You ain’t offered to re- 
sist her ; you ain’t done a stroke since breakfast. Ef you was 
under me, Knuckles, I’d a laid this green twig over your red jack- 
et in a way that would ha’ made a ’possum laugh.” 

“ Eh !” was the only exclamation of the half drunken Indian, 
at this characteristic conclusion of the negro’s speech ; but, though 
Knuckles said nothing that could denote his indignation at the ir- 
reverent threat, which, though contingent only, was excessively 
annoying to the amour propre of the Catawba, there was a gleam 
of angry intelligence which flashed out for a moment from his 
eyes and his thin lips parted to a grin that showed his white teeth 
witli an expression not unlike that of a wolf hard pressed by one 
more daring cur than the rest. Either Mingo did not see this, or 
he thought too lightly of the prowess of his companion to heed it. 
He continued in the same strain and with increasing boldness. 

“ Now I say, Knuckles, all that’s onbecoming. A woman’s a 
woman, and a man’s a man. A woman has her sort of work, 
and it’s easy. And a man has his sort of work, and that’s hard. 
Now, here you make this poor gal do your work and her own too. 
That’s not fair, it’s a despisable principle, and I may say, no man’s 
a gempleman that believes it. Ha’n’t I seed, time upon time, In- 
dian men going along, stiff and straight as a pine tree, carrying 
nothing but a bow and arrow, and mout be, a gun ; and, same 
time, the squaws walking a most double under the load. That’s 
a common ex-servation. Iv’e seed it a hundred times. Is that 
’speclful or decent to the fair seek ? I say no, and I’ll stand by. and 
leave it to any tree gentlemen of any complexion, ef I ain’t right.” 

It was well, perhaps, for the maintenance of peace between the 
parties, that Knuckles was too drunk and too ignorant to compre- 
hend all that was spoken by the Driver. The leading idea, how- 
ever, was sufficiently clear for his comprehension, and to this he 
answered with sufficient brevity and phlegm. 

“ Indian woman is good for work — Indian man for hunt; woman 
is good for hab children ; man for shoot — man for fight. The 
Catawba man is very good for fight;” and as the poor, miserable 

( creature spoke, the fire of a former and a better day, seemed to 
kindle his cheeks and give lustre to his eye. Probably, the 
memory of that traditional valour which distinguished the people 


386 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


to which he belonged in a remarkable degree, in comparison 
with the neighbouring nations, came over his thoughts, and 
warned him with something like a kindred sentiment w ith those 
which had been so long forgotten by his race. 

“ Oh go ’long !” said the negro. “ How you talk, Knuckles ! 
wha make you better for fight more dan me ? Ki, man ! Once 
you stan’ afore Mingo, you tumble. Ef I was to take you in my 
arms and give you one good hug, Lor’ ha’ massy ’pon you ! 
You’d neber feel yourself after that, and nothing would be lef’ of 
you for you wife to see, but a long greasy mark, most like a little 
old man, yer, ’pon my breast and thighs. I never seed the In- 
dian yet that I could’nt lick, fair up and down, hitch cross, or big 
cross, hand over, hand under, arm lock and leg lock, in seven- 
teen and nine minutes, by the sun. You don’t know, Knuckles, 
else you would’nt talk so foolish. Neber Indian kin stan’ agen 
black man, whedder for fight or work. That’s the thing I’m 
talking ’bout. You can’t fight fair and you can’t work. You 
aint got strengt’ for it. All your fighting is bush fighting and 
behind tree, and you’ woman does the work. Now, wha’ make 
you lie down here, and not go ’pon you’ hunting ? That’s ’cause 
you’re lazy. You come look at my hands, see ’em plough, see 
’.em hoe, see ’em mak’ ditch, cut tree, split rail, buil’ house — 
when you see dem, you’ll see wha’ I call man. I would’nt give 
tree snap of a finger for any pusson that’s so redolent as an In- 
dian. They’re good for nothing but eat.” 

“Catawba man is good for fight !” sullenly responded the In- 
dian to a speech which the negro soon found to have been impru- 
dently concerted and rashly spoken, in more respects than one. 
“ Nigger man and squaw is good for work !” continued the other 
disdainfully, his thin lips curling into an expression of scorn 
which did not escape the eyes of Mingo, obtuse as his vanity 
necessarily made him. “ Catawba man is a free man, he can 
sleep or he can hunt,” pursued the savage, retorting decidedly 
upon the condition of the slave, but without annoying the sleek, 
well fed and self-complacent driver. “Nigger man ain’t free 
man — he must work, same like Indian squaw.” 

“ Oh, skion ! Oh ! skion ! wha’s all dat, Knuckles? You don’t 
know wha’ you say. Who make you free ? wha’ make yoi 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


387 


free ? How you show you got freedom, when here you expen’ 
'pon poor woman for work your pot, and half de time you got 
not’ing to put in ’em. Now, I is free man ! Cause, you see my 
pot is always full, and when I does my work like a gempleman, — 
who cares? 1 laughs at mossa jist the same as I laughs at you. 
You free eh ? — you ! Whay you hab coat like mine ? Whay, you 
hab breeches? Why, Knuckles, you aint decent for stan’ ’fore 
you wife. Dat’s trut’ I’m telling you. How you can be free 
when you aint decent ? How you can be free when you no 
work ? How you can be free when you half-starbing all de time? 
When you aint got blanket to you’ back — when you aint got fat 
’pon you rib. When here, you expen’ ’pon my land to get the 
mud-stuff for you’ pots and pans! Psho, psho, Knuckles, you 
don’t know wha’ you talk ’bout. You aint hab sensible notion of 
dem tings wha make free pusson. Nebber man is freeman, ef 
he own arm can’t fill he stomach. Nebber man is freeman if he 
own work can’t put clothes ’pon he back. Nebber man is free- 
man — no, nor gempleman neider, when he make he purty young 
wife do all de work, him lying same time, wid he leg cross and 
he eye half shut, in de long grass smelling ob de sunshine. No, 
no, Knuckles, you must go to ycru’ work, same as I goes to mine, 
ef you wants people to desider you a freeman. Now you’ work 
is hunting — my work is for obersee my plantation. It’s a trut’, 
your work aint obermuch — ’taint wha’ gempleman kin call work 
altogedder, but nebber mind, it’s someting. Now, wha for you no 
go to you’ work ? Come, I gwine to mine. Y r ou strike off now 
’pon your business. I reckon you’ wife can make he pots, same 
as ef we bin’ stan’ look ’pon ’em. Woman don’t like to be 
obershee, and when I tink ’pon de seek, I don’t see any needees- 
sity for it.” 

The Indian darted a fierce glance at the authoritative negro, 
and simply exclaiming, “ Eh ! Eh f ” rose from his position, and 
tottering towards the spot where the woman was at work, uttered 
a few brief words in her ear which had the immediate effect of 
sending her out of sight, and into the hovel. He then returned 
q lietly to his nest beneath the tree. Mingo was somewhat an- 
noyed by the conviction that he had overshot his object, and had 
provoked the always eager suspicions of the savage. Knuckles 


338 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


oetrayed no sort of intention to go on the hunt that day ; and his 
force glances, even if he had no words to declare his feelings, 
sufficiently betrayed. to the negro the jealousies that were awakened 
in his mind. The latter felt troubled. He fancied that, in the 
pursuit of his desires, were the woman alone concerned, he should 
have no difficulty, but he knew not what to do with the man. To 
scare him off was impossible — to beguile him from his treasure 
seemed equally difficult, and, in his impatience, the dogmatical 
diive/, accustomed to have his will instantly obeyed, could scarce- 
ly restrain himself from a second resort to the whip. A moment’s 
reflection brought a more prudent resolution to his mind, and see- 
ing that the squatters were likely to go without food that day, he 
determined to try the effect which the presentation of a flitch of 
his master’s bacon would have, upon the jealousy of the husband, 
and the affections of the wife. With this resolution, he retired from 
the ground, though without declaring his new and gracious pur- 
pose to either of the parties whom it was intended especially to 
benefit. 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF 'fTIE DRIVER. 


389 


CHAPTER VII* 

The flitch was brougm, boiled, and laid before the sqUatterg* 
It was accompanied by a wholesome supply of corn bread • and 
this liberality, which had, for its sanction, in part, the expressed 
determination of the master, had for its effect, the restoration of 
Mingo to that favour in the mind of the savage, which his impru- 
dent opinions had forfeited. Even a jealous Indian, when so very 
hungry as our Catawba, and so utterly wanting in resources of 
his own, cannot remain insensible to that generosity, however 
suspicious, which fills his larder with good cheer in the happy 
moment. He relaxed accordingly, Mingo was invited into the 
hovel, and made to partake of the viands which he had provided. 
A moderate supply of whiskey accompanied the gift, enough to 
give a flavour to the meal, yet not enough to produce intoxication. 
Mingo was resolved henceforth, to do nothing which would keep 
himself and Knuckles from an uninterrupted pursuit of their sev 
eral game. But while the meal lasted, he saw but few results., 
beyond the thawing of Knuckles, which promised him success in 
his object. Caloya was, if possible, more freezing than ever. 
She never deigned him the slightest acknowledgment for his nu- 
merous civilities, which were not merely profitless, but which 
had the additional disadvantage of attracting the eyes, and finally 
re-awakening the jealous apprehensions of Knuckles; still, the 
good cheer was so good, and the facility with which it had been 
procured, so very agreeable to a lazy Indian, that he swallowed 
his dissatisfaction with his pottage, and the meal passed over 
without any special outbreak. Mingo, so near the object of his 
desire, was by no means disposed to disputation with her husband, 
and contented himself with only an occasional burst of declama- 
tion, which was intended rather for her ears than for those of her 
lord. But he strove to make amends for their forbearance, by ad- 
dressing the most excruciating glances across the table to the fair 


390 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


— glances which she did not requite with favour, and which she 
did not often seem to see. 

Mingo was in hopes, when dinner was over, that Knuckles 
would take up his bow and arrows, and set forth on the hunt. 
To this he endeavoureo, in an indirect manner, to urge the sav- 
age. He told him that game was plenty in the neighbouring 
woods and swamps — that deer might be found at all hours, and 
‘even proceeded to relate several marvellous stories of his own 
success, which failed as well to persuade as to deceive the hunter. 
The whiskey being exhausted by this time, and his hunger being 
pacified, the jealous fit of the latter returned upon him with all the 
vigour of an ague. “ Why*,” he asked himself, “ should this negro 
steal his master’s bacon to provide Richard Knuckles with a din- 
ner ? Because Richard Knuckles has a young wife, the young- 
est and handsomest of the whole tribe. Why should he urge me 
to go hunting, and take such pains to show me where the buck, 
stalks, and the doe sleeps, but that he knows I must leave my 
doe behind me ? Why should he come and sit with me half a 
dozer limes a day, but that he may see and sit with my young 
wife also?” An Indian reasons very much like every body else, 
and jumps very rationally to like conclusions. The reserve of 
Knuckles grew with his reflections, and Mingo had sense enough 
to perceive that he could hope for no successful operations that 
day. The woman was sent from the presence, and her husband 
began to exhibit very decided symptoms of returning sulks. He 
barely answered the civilities of the driver, and a savage grin 
displayed his white teeth, closely clenched, whenever his thin 
lips parted to reply. The parting speech of the negro was not 
precisely the D. I. O. of the rattle-dandy of fashionable life, but 
was very much like it. If he did not swear like a trooper at bid- 
ding adieu, he marked every step on his way homewards with a 
most bitter oath. 

But success is no ripe fruit to drop at the first opening of the 
mouth of the solicitous. Mingo was not the person to forego his 
efforts, and he well knew from old experience, that a woman is 
never so near won, as when she seems least willing. He was 
not easily given to despair, however he might droop, and .he next 
day, and the next, and the next found him still a frequent visitor 


CALOYA; OK, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


39 i 

at the camp of Knuckles ; and still he provided the corn, the ba- 
con, and the whiskey, and still he found the Catawba a patient re- 
cipient of his favours. The latter saw no reason to leave home 
to hunt venison when his larder was so easily provided, and the 
former could not, but at some discredit, discontinue the liberal 
practices which he had so improvidently begun. 

But if Knuckles was not unwilling to be fed after this fash- 
ion, he was not altogether insensible to some of the conditions 
which it implied. He could not but perceive that the negro had 
his objects, and those objects his jealous blood had led him 
long before to conjecture with sufficient exactness. He raged in- 
wardly with the conviction that the gallant, good looking, and al- 
ways well dressed Driver sought to compass his dishonour ; and 
he was not without the natural fears of age and brutality that, 
but for his own eminent watchfulness, he might be successful. 
As there was no equality in the conditions of himself and wife, 
there was but little confidence between them — certainly none on 
his part ; — and his suspicions — schooled into silence in the pres- 
ence of Mingo, as well because of the food which he brought, as 
of the caution which the great physical superiority of the latter 
was calculated to inspire — broke out with unqualified violence 
when the two were alone together. The night of the first day 
when Mingo provided the table of the squatters so bountifully, 
was distinguished by a concussion of jealousy, on the part of 
Knuckles, which almost led the poor woman to apprehend for her 
life. The effects of the good cheer and the whiskey had sub- 
sided and the departure of Mingo was the signal for the domestic 
storm. 

“ flah ! hah ! nigger is come for see Ingin wife. Ingin wife 
is look ’pon nigger — hah ?” 

It was thus that he begun the warfare. We have endeavoured 
to put into the Indian-English, as more suitable to the subject, and 
more accessible to the reader, that dialogue which was spoken in 
ihe most musical Catawba. The reply of the woman, though 
meekly expressed, was not without its sting. 

“ Ingin man eats from nigger hand, drinks from nigger bottle, 
and sits down by nigger side in the sunshine. Is Caloya to say, 
nigger go to the cornfield — Ingin raan go look for meat ?” 


392 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


The husband glared at the speaker with fiery eyes, while his 
teeth gleamed maliciously upon her, and were suddenly gnashed 
in violence, as he replied : 

“ Hah ! Ingin man must not look pon his wife ! Hah ! Ingin 
woman says — ‘ go hunt, man, go — that no eyes may follow nig- 
ger when he crawls through the bush. Hah !’ ” 

“ Caloya is blind when the nigger comes to the camp. Calova 
looks not where he lies in the sunshine with the husband of Ca- 
loya. Is Enefisto (the Indian name for Knuckles) afraid of nig- 
ger ? — is he afraid of Caloya ? — let us go : Caloya would go to 
her people where they camp by the Edisto.” 

“ Hah ! What said Chickawa, to Caloya ? Did he say, come 
to our people where they camp by the Edisto ? Wherefore should 
Caloya go beside the Edisto — Hah V ’ 

This question declared another object of the husband’s jealousy. 
The woman’s reply was as wild as it was immediate. 

“ Caloya sees not Chickawa — she sees not the nigger — she sees 
the clay and she sees the pans — and she sees Enefisto — Enet'sto 
has said, and her eyes are shut to other men.” 

“ Caloya lies !” 

“ Ah !” 

“ Caloya lies !” 

The woman turned away without another word, and re-enter- 
ing the miserable wigwam, slunk out of sight in the darkest cor- 
ner of it. Thither she was pursued by the inveterate old man, 
and there, for some weary hours, she suffered like language of 
distrust and abuse without uttering a sentence either of denial or 
deprecation. She shed no tears, she uttered no complaints, nor 
did her tormentor hear a single sigh escape from her bosom ; yet, 
without question, her poor heart suffered quite as much from his 
cruelty and injustice, as if her lips had betrayed all the extrava- 
gant manifestations known to the sorrows of the civilized. 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER 


393 


CHAPTER YIII. 

It is at least one retributive quality of jealousy, to torment the 
mind of the tormentor quite as much, if not more, than it does 
that of the victim. The anger of Richard Knuckles kept him 
awake the better part of the night ; and, in his wakefulness, he 
meditated little else than the subject of his present fears. The 
indirect reproaches of his wife stung him, and suggested, at the 
same time, certain additional reasons for his suspicions. He re- 
flected that, while he remained a close sentinel at home, it was 
impossible that he should obtain sufficient evidence to convict the 
parties whom he suspected, of the crime which he feared j for, 
by so doing, he must deprive the sooty Paris, who sought his 
hovel, of every opportunity for the prosecution of his design. 
With that morbid wilfulness of temper which marks the passions 
of man aroused beyond the restraints of right reason, he deter- 
mined that the negro should have his opportunity ; and, changing 
his plans, he set forth the next morning before day-peep, obviously 
for the purnose of hunting. But he did not remain long absent. 
He was fortunaie enough jus; after leaving his cabin to shoot « 
fat wild turkey from his roost, on the edge of a little bay that 
stood about a mile from his camp ; and with this on his shoulder, 

I he returned stealthily to its neighbourhood, and, hiding himself in 
the covert, took such a position as enabled him to keep a keen 
watch over his premises and all the movements of Caloya. Un- 
til ten o’clock in the day he saw nothing to produce dissatisfac- 
tion or to alarm his fears. He saw the patient woman come 
forth according to custom, and proceed instantly to the “ Red Gul- 
ley,” where she resumed her tasks, which she pursued with quite 
as much industry, and, seemingly, much more cheerfulness than 
when she knew thai he was watching. Her lips even broke forth 
into song while she pursued her tasks, though the strain was mo- 
notonous and the sentiment grave and melancholy. At ten o’r jock, 
however, Knuckle’s ague returned as he saw the negro make 


394 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


his appearance with wonted punctuality. The Indian laid his 
heaviest shaft upon the string of his bow, and awaited the prog- 
ress of events. The movements of Mingo were made with due 
circumspection. He did not flatter himself, at first, that the field 
was clear, and looked round him with grave anxiety in moment- 
ary expectation of seeing the husband. His salutation of the 
wife was sufficiently distant and deferential. He began by ask- 
ing after the chief, and received an answer equally cold and un- 
satisfactory. He gathered from this answer, however, that 
Knuckles was absent ; but whether at a distance or at hand, or 
for how long a period, were important items of intelligence, which, 
as yet, he failed to compass ; and it was only by a close cross- 
examination of the witness that he arrived at the conclusion, that 
Knuckles nad at length resumed the duties of the hunter. Even 
this conclusion reached him in a negative and imperfect form. 

“ Shall Ingin woman say to Ingin man, when he shall hunt and 
where, and how long he shall be gone ?” demanded the woman in 
reply to the eager questioning of the negro. 

“ Certainly not, most angelical !” was the elevated response of 
the black, as his lips parted into smiles, and his eyes shot forth 
the glances of warmer admiration than ever. The arrow of 
Knuckles trembled meanwhile upon the string. 

“ Certainly not, most angelical! — but Ingin man, ef he lob 
and respects Indian woman, will tell her all about his consarns 
without, her axing. I’m sure, most lubly Caloya, ef you was wife 
of mine, you should know all my outgivings and incomings, my 
journey ings and backslidings, to and fro, — my ways and my 
wishes ; — there shouldn’t be nothing that I wouldn’t let you know. 
But there’s a mighty diflerence, you see, twixt an old husband 
and a young one. Now, an old man like Knuckles, he’s mighty 
close — he don’t talk out his mind like a young fellow that’s full 
of infections — a young fellow like me, that knows how to look 
’pon a handsome young wife, and treat her with proper respecta- 
bleness. Do you think now, ef you was wife of mine, that I’d 
let you do all that work by yourself? No ! not for all the pots 
and jars twixt this and Edisto forks ! Ef I did ask you to do the 
pans, and round ’em, and smooth ’em, and put the red stain ’pop 
’em, why that wouldn’t be on reason able, you see, ’cause sich del- 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


395 


lvsiftl and slim fingers as woman’s has, kin always manage them 
deupeots better than man’s — but then, I’d dig the clay for you, 
m > — I’d work it, ef I hadn’t horse, I’d work it with my own 
legs,- -I’d pile it up ’pon the board, and cut the wood to make the 
fire, and help you to burn it ; and when all was done, I’d bend 
my own shoulders to the load, and you should follow me to 
Charleston, like a Lady, as you is. That’s the way, my gal, that 
I’d treat wife of mine. But Ingin don’t know much ’bout wo- 
man, and old Ingim don’t care ; — now, black Gempleman always 
has strong infections for the seek — he heart i? '.ender — he eye is 
lub for look 'pon beauty — he hab soul for consider ’em in de right 
way, and when he sees ’em bright eye, ar smood, shiny skin, 
and white teet*, and long arm, and slender */ais’, and glossy black 
hair, same like you’s, ah, Caloya, he strengt’ is melt away widin 
’em, and he feels like not’ing only so much honey, lub and infec- 
tions. He’s all over infections, as I may say. Wha’ you tink ?” 

Here the Driver paused, not so much from having nothing more 
to say, as from a lack of the necessary breath with which to say 
it. Knuckles heard every word, though it would be an error to 
assume that he understood one half. Still, the liquorish expres- 
sion in the face of the negro sufficiently illustrated his meaning 
to satisfy the husband that the whole speech was pregnant with 
the most audacious kind of impertinence. The reflection upon 
his weight of ^ears, and the exulting reference to his own 
youth and manhood, which Mingo so adroitly introduced, was, 
however, sufficiently intelligible and insulting to the Catawba, 
and he hesitated whether to draw the arrow to its head at once 
and requite this second Paris for his affront, even in the midst of 
it, or to await until farther wrong should yield him a more per- 
fect justification for the deed. He reflected upon the danger of 
the attempt, and his resolution was already taken as to the mode 
and direction of his flight. But a morbid wish to involve Caloya 
in the same fate — a lingering desire to find a sanction in her 
weakness and guilt for all his own frequent injustice and brutal- 
ity, determined him to await her answer, and §ee to what extrem- 
ities the negro would be permitted to carry his presumption. 
Strange to say, the answer of the wife, which was such as must 


$96 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABlfs. 


have satisfied a husband that loved truly, gave him no gratifi- 
cation . 

“ Black man is too foolish !” said the woman with equal brevi 
ty and scorn in reply to the long speech of the Driver. 

“ Don’t say so, most lubly of all the Catawba gals — you don’, 
mean what you say for sartain. Look you — yer is as nice a 
pullet as ever was roasted, and yer is some hard biled eggs, and 
hoecake. I reckon that old fellow, your husband, aint brung in 
your breckkus yet ; so you must be mighty hungry by this time, 
and there’s no better stay-stomach in the worl than hard biled 
eggs. It’s a mighty hard thing to work tell the sun stands atoj 
of your head, afore getting any thing to go ’pon : I guessed how 
’twould be, and so I brung you these few eatables.” 

He set down a small basket as he spoke, but the woman did 
not seem to perceive it, and manifested no sort of disposition to 
avail herself of his gift and invitation. 

“ What ! you wont take a bite ?” 

“ Enefisto will thank you when he come,” was the answer, 
coldly spoken, and the woman toiled more assiduously, while she 
spoke, at her potteries. 

“Enefisto! — oh, that’s only an Ingin name for Knuckles, I 
s’pose. But who care for him, Caloya ? Sure, you don’t care 
’bout an old fellow like that — fellow that makes you work and 
gives you not eben dry hominey ? Prehaps, you’re feard he’ll 
beat you ; but don’t you feard — neber he kin lay heaby hand 
’pon you, so long as Mingo is yer.” 

Could Mingo have seen the grin which appeared upon the 
mouth of the Indian as he heard these words, and have seen the 
deliberateness with which he thrice lifted the shaft and thrust its 
point between the leaves so as to bear upon his heart, he might 
have distrusted his own securities and strength, and have learned 
to be more respectful in estimating the powers of his foe. But 
the Indian seemed to content himself with being in a state of pre- 
paredness and in having possession of the entire field. He did 
not shoot ; his worse feelings remained unsatisfied — he saw nothin^ 
in the deportment of Caloya which could feed the morbid passion 
which prevailed over all others in his breast, and he probably 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. M7 

forbore wreaking his malice upon the one victim, in hopes tnat 
by a little delay he might yet secure another. 

“ Black man is too foolish. Why he no go to his work ? 
Catawba woman is do her work.” 

“ And I will help you, my gal. It’s mighty hard to do all by 
you self, so here goes. Lor’, if I was your husband, Caloya, 
instead of that old fellow, Knuckles, you should be a lady — I’d 
neber let you touch a pot or a pan, and you should hab a frock 
all ob seersuck jist like this.” 

As the negro spoke, he threw off his hunting shirt, which he 
cast over a bush behind him, rolled up his shirt sleeves, display- 
ing his brawny and well made arms to the woman — perhaps the 
chief motive for his present gallant proceeding — and, advancing to 
the pile of clay in which Caloya was working, thrust his hands into 
the mass and began to knead with all the energy of a baker, stri- 
ving with his dough. The woman shrank back from her place, 
as she received this new accession of labour, and much to the an- 
noyance of Mingo, retired to a little distance, where she seemed 
to contemplate his movements in equal surprise and dissatisfac- 
tion. Meanwhile, a change had taken place in the mood and 
movements of Knuckles. The sight of the gaudy garment which 
Mingo had hung upon the myrtle bushes behind him, awakened 
the cupidity of the Catawba. For a time„ a stronger passion than 
jealousy seized his mind, and he yearned to be the possessor of a 
shirt which he felt assured would be the envy of the tribe. It 
hung in his eyes like a fascination — he no longer saw Caloya — 
he no longer heeded the movements of the negro who had been 
meditating so great an injury to his honour and peace of mind ; 
and, so long as the bright stripes of the seersucker kept waving 
before him, he forgot all his own deeply meditated purposes of 
vengeance. The temptation at last became irresistible. With the 
stealthy movement of his race, he rose quietly from the spot 
where he had bean lurking, sank back in the depths of the woods 
behind him, and, utterly unheard, unobserved and unsuspected 
by either of the two in front, he succeeded in making a compass, 
still under cover, which brought him in the rear of the myrtles 
on which the coat was suspended. Meanwhile, Mingo, with his 
face to the kneading trough, and his back upon the endangered 


393 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


garment, was in the full stream of a new flood of eloquence, and 
the favourite Seersucker disappeared in the rapid grasp of the hus- 
band, while he was most earnest, though at a respectful distance, 
in an endeavour to deprive the Indian of a yet dearer possession. 
In this aim his arguments and entreaties were equally fond and 
impudent ; and with his arms buried to the elbows in the clay, 
and working the rigid mass as if life itself depended upon it, he 
was pouring forth a more unctuous harangue than ever, when, sud- 
denly looking up to the spot where Caloya had retreated, his eye 
rested only upon the woods. The woman had disappeared from 
sight. He had been “wasting his sweetness on the desert air’’ — 
he had been talking to the wind only. Of this, at first, he was not 
so perfectly assured. 

“ Hello !” he exclaimed, “ Whare you gone, Caloya ? Hello — 
hello ! Whoo — whoo — whoop !” 

He waited in silence until he became convinced that his re- 
sponses were those only of the echo. 

“ Can’t be !” he exclaimed, “ can’t be, he gone and lef ’ me ip 
de middle of my talking ! Caloya, Caloya, — Hello, gal ! iiello 
— whay you day ? Whoo ! whoop !” 

Utter silence followed the renewal of his summons. He stuck 
his fingers, coated as they were with clay, into his wiry shock of 
wool — a not unfrequent habit with the negro when in a quandary, 
— and, could the blushes of one of his colour have been seen, those 
of Mingo would have been found of a scarlet beyond all compari- 
son as the conviction forced itself upon him, that he was laughed 
at and deserted. 

“ Cuss de woman !” he exclaimed, “ wha make me lub em so. 
But he mus’nt tink for git ’way from me wid dis sort of ac- 
ceedint. ’Speck he can’t be too fur; ef he day in dese woods 
wha’ for keep me from fin’ ’em. As for he husband, better he 
no meet me now. Ef he stan’ in my way tree minutes, I’ll tum- 
ble em sure as a stone.” 

Thus soliloquizing, he darted into the woods, traversing every 
opening and peeping behind every bush and tree for a goodly 
hour, but without success. Man and wife had disappeared with 
a success and secrecy equally inscrutable. Breathless and an- 
gry he emerged once more, and stood within the camp. His an- 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


399 


ger put on the aspect of fury, and disappointment became despe- 
ration. He looked round for the dog, intending to renew the 
flogging which he had administered on the first day of his ac- 
quaintance, and in bestowing which he had been so seasonably in- 
terrupted by the owner ; but the cur had departed also ; and no 
signs remained of any intention on the part of the squatters to 
resume their temporary lodging place, but the rude specimens of 
clay manufacture, some two dozen pots and pans, which stood under 
a rude shelter of twigs and bushes, immediately adjoining the wig- 
wam. These, with foot and fist, Mingo. demolished, trampling, with 
the ingenious pains-taking of a wilful bey, the yet unhardened 
vases out of all shape and character into the earth on which they 
rested. Having thus vented his spleen and displayed a less no- 
ble nature than he usually pretended to, the driver proceeded to 
resume his coat, in mood of mind as little satisfied with what he 
had done in his anger as with the disappointment that had pro- 
voked it. But here a new wonder and vexation awaited him. 
His fingers again recurred to his head, but no scratching of which 
they were capable, could now keep him from the conviction that 
there was “ magic in the web of it.” He looked and lingered, 
but he was equally unsuccessful in the search after his hunting 
shirt, as for his good humour. He retired from the ground in some 
doubt whether it was altogether safe for him to return to a spot 
in which proceedings of so mysterious a character had taken 
place. All the events in connection with his new acquaintance 
began to assume a startling and marvellous character in his 
e y es • — the lazy dog ; — the old husband of a wife so young and 
lovely ! What could be more strange or unnatural ! But her 
flight — her sudden disappearance, and that too at a time when he 
was employing those charms of speech which heretofore had 
never proved ineffectual ! Mingo jumped to the conclusion that 
Knuckles was a Catawba wizard, and he determined to have 
nothing more to do with him : — a determination which he main- 
tained onlv until the recollection of Caloya’s charms made him 
resolve, at all hazards, to screen her from so ugly an enchanter. 


400 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


CHAPTER IX. 

But a little time had passed after Mingo had left the camp 
when Knuckles returned to it. He approached with stealthy 
pace, keeping himself under cover until he found that the ene- 
my had departed. During the search which the Driver had 
made after himself and wife, he had been a quiet observer of all 
his movements. He fancied that the search was instituted for - 
the recovery of the hunting shirt, and did not dream that his 
wife had left the ground as well as himself to ihe single posses- 
sion of the visitor. When he returned and found her gone, 
his first impression was that she had departed with the negro. 
But a brief examination of their several footsteps, soon removed 
his suspicions and enabled him to pursue the route which the 
woman had taken on leaving the camp. He found her without 
difficulty, as she came forward, at his approach, from the copse 
in which she had concealed herself. He encountered her with 
the bitterest language of suspicion and denunciation. His jeal- 
ousy had suffered no decrease in consequence of his failure to 
find cause for it ; but fattening from what it fed on — his own con- 
sciousness of unworthiness — the conviction that he did not dt 
serve and could not please one, so far superior and so much 
younger than himself — vented itself in coarse charges and vin- 
dictive threats. With the patience of Griselda, the Catawba 
woman followed him in silence to the camp, where they soon 
found cause for new affliction in the discovery which they there 
made, of the manner in which the disappointed Driver had vented 
his fury upon their wares. The wrath of Knuckles increased at 
this, discovery, though it did not, as it should have done, lead to 
my abatement of his jealous feeling towards his wife. Perhaps, 
on the contrary, it led to the farther proceeding of extremity, 
which he now meditated, and which he began to unfold to her 
ears. We forbear the unnecessary preliminaries in the conver- 
sation which followed between them, and which were given sim- 


CALOYA; oh, the loves of the driver 


401 


ply to a re-assertion, on his part, of old and groundless charges, 
and on hers of a simple and effortless denial of them. Her final 
reply, spoken of course in her own language, to the reiterated 
accusation, was such as to show that even the exemplary patience 
which she had hitherto manifested was beginning to waver. 
There was something in it to sting the worthless old iinner, not 
with a feeling of remorse, but of shame and vexation. 

If Enefisto loves not the black man, wherefore does he take 
the meat which he brings, and the poison drink from his bottle ? 
If he loves not the black man, wherefore takes he the garment 
which wrapt his limbs ? Caloya loves not the black man, and 
has eaten none of his meat, has drank none of his poison water, 
and has stolen none of his garments. Let Enefisto cast the shirt 
over the myrtles, and now, now, let the woman go ba<ik to seek 
her people that camp on the waters of the Edisto. Caloya looks 
not where the black man sits ; Caloya sees not where he stands, 
and hears not when he speaks. Caloya hears only a snake’s hissing 
in her ears. Enefisto believes not the woman, and she cares not 
much to speak ; — but let him take up the hatchet and the bow, and 
she will follow where he leads. Let her go to her people, where 
there is no black man. She would not stay at the 4 Red Gul- 
ley,’ where the black man comes.” 

44 But she would go to the Edisto where is Chickawa ? Hah ! 
Caloya shall stay by the 4 Red Gulley,’ where is Enefisto — she 
shall not go to the Edisto where is Chickawa. Enefisto sees ; 
Enefisto knows.” 

44 Ah, and Caloya knows ! Caloya knows ! Enefisto sees 
Chickawa and the nigger Mingo every where. But let Enefisto 
take up his hatchet and go from this place. See,” pointing to 
the broken pottery, 44 there is nothing to stay for. The nigger 
will break the pans when she makes them.” 

44 Enefisto will take up the hatchet, — he will drive it into the 
head of the nigger. He will not go where Caloya may see Chick- 
awa. She shall stay by the 4 Red Gulley,’ and when Mingo, the 
nigger comes, she shall smile upon him. She shall go into the 
wigwam. Then will he go to her in the wigwam — Hah V* 

“ What would Enefisto ?” demanded the squaw in some con 
27 


402 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


sternation at this seeming and very sudden change in the disposi 
tion of her spouse'. 

“ Mingo will say to Caloya, ‘ come, old man is gone hunting, 
come. Am I not here for Caloya, come. I love Caloya, let 
Caloya love Mingo, come !'” 

“ But Caloya hates Mingo, Caloya will spit upon the nigger !” 
was the indignant exclamation. 

“ Oh, no, no !” was the almost musical and certainly wild re- 
ply of the husband, while a savage smile of scorn and suspicion 
covered his features. “ Caloya knows not what she says — she 
means not what she says. Nigger is young man — Enefistois old 
man. Nigger hab good meat — Enefisto is old hunter, he cannot 
see where the deer sleep, he cannot follow the deer in a long 
chase, fpr his legs grow weary. Caloya loves young man who 
can bring her ’nough venison and fine clothes, hah ? Let Caloya 
go into the wigwam, and nigger will say ‘ come,’ and Caloya will 
come.” 

“ Never !’ was the indignant answer. “ Caloya will never 
come to the nigger — Caloya will never come to Chickawa. Let 
Enefisto strike the hatchet into the head of Caloya, for his words 
make her very wretched. It is better she should die.” 

“ Caloya shall live to do the will of Enefisto. She shall go 
where Mingo comes into the wigwam, and when he shall follow 
her, she shall stay and look upon him face to face. Mingo is 
young, — Caloya loves to look upon young man. When he shall 
put his hand upon the shoulder of Caloya then shall Caloya put 
her hand upon his. So shall it be — thus says Enefisto.” 

“ Wherefore shall it be so ?” 

“ Thus says Enefisto. Will Caloya say no ?” 

“ Let Enefisto kill Caloya ere her hand rests upon the shoulder 
of Mingo. The hatchet of Enefisto ” 

“ Shall sink into the head of the nigger, when his hand is upon 
the shoulder of Caloya.” 

“ Ha !” 

“ It is done. Does Caloya hear ?” 

“ She hears.” 

“ Will she go into the wigwam when Mingo comes ?” 

“ She vill go.” 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


403 


“ And when he follows her, — when he puts his hand upon her 
shoulder, and looks, Ha ! ha ! ha ! — looks thus, thus, into her 
eyes” — his own assumed an expression, or he strove at that mo- 
ment to make them assume an expression of the most wilful love, 
— an attempt in which he signally failed, for hate, scorn and 
jealousy predominating still, gave him a most ghastly aspect, 
from which the woman shrunk with horror — “ when he looks 
thus into her eyes, then will Caloya put her hand upon the shoul- 
der of Mingo and hold him fast till the hatchet of Enefisto goes 
deep into his head. Will Caloya do this, — Ha? Will Calrya 
look on him thus, and grasp him thus, until Enefisto shall strike 
him thus, thus, thus, till there shall be no more life in his fore- 
head ?” 

A moment’s pause ensued, ere the woman spoke. 

“ Let Enefisto give the hatchet to Caloya. Caloya will herself 
strike him in the head if he goes after her into the wigwam.” 

“No! Caloya shall not. Enefisto will strike. Caloya shall 
grasp him on the shoulder. Enefisto will see by this if Caloya 
loves not that the black man should seek her always in the wig- 
wam of the chief. Is Caloya ready — will she do this thing ?” 

“ Caloya is ready — she will do it.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! — black man is foolish to come to the camp of Ene- 
fisto, and look on the woman of Enefisto. He shall die.” 


404 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER X. 

Mingo Gillison almost stumbled over his young master that 
morning, as he was returning home from his visit so full of 
strange and unwonted incidents. The latter was about to visit 
the camp of the squatters in compliance with his promise to that 
effect, when diverted from his intention by the intelligence which 
the negro gave him, that the Indians were gone from home. 
Somehow, it seemed to Mingo Gillison, that it was no part of his 
present policy that his master should see the intruders. A con- 
sciousness of guilt — a conviction that he had not been the faithful 
custodian of the interests given to his charge, and that, in some 
respects, they had suffered detriment at his hands, made him 
jealously apprehensive that the mere visit of his owner to the 
Red Gulley, would bring his defection to light. 

“ But where’s your coat, Mingo?” was the natural question 
Tof Colonel Gillison, the moment after meeting him. Mingo was 
as ready as any other lover at a lie, and taking for granted that 
Jove would laugh at this, quite as generously as at a more dan- 
gerous perjury, he told a long cock-and-a-bull story about his 
having had it torn to such a degree in hunting cattle the evening 
before, as to put it beyond the power of recovery by the seam- 
stress. 

“ A handsome coat, too, Mingo : I must give you another.” 

Mingo was gratified and expressed his acknowledgments quite 
as warmly as it was in his power to do under the feeling of shame 
and undesert which at that moment oppressed him His master 
did not fail to see that something had occurred to iessen the as- 
surance of his driver, and diminish the emphasis and abridge the 
eloquence of his usual speech, but being of an inert disposition of 
mind, he was not curious enough to seek the solution of a cir- 
cumstance which, though strange, was unimportant. They sep- 
arated after a few inquiries on the part of the latter, touching 
various plantation topics, to all of which the answers of Mingo 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER, 405 

were uttered with a sufficient degree of readiness and boldness to 
make them satisfactory. The master returned to the residence, 
while Mingo went off to the negro quarter to meditate how to 
circumvent Richard Knuckles, and win the smiles of his handsome 
but haughty wife. 

It was probably two hours after the supper things had been re- 
moved, that the youthful proprietor of the estate of which Mingo 
held the highly important office in the duties of which we have 
seen him busy, was startled by the easy opening of jthe door of 
the apartment in which he sat, groping through the newspapers 
of the day, and, immediately after, by the soft tread of a female 
footstep, heedfully set down upon the floor. He turned at the un- 
usual interruption, for it may as well be stated passingly, that 
young Gillison had set out in life with notions of such inveterate * 
bachelorship that his domestic establishment was not suffered to 
be invaded by any of the opposite sex in any capacity. It is not 
improbable, that, later in life, his rigour in this respect, may have 
undergone some little relaxation, but as we are concerned with 
present events only, it will be no object with us either to speou- 
late upon or to inquire into the future. Sufficient for the day is 
the evil thereof. Enough for us that his present regulations were 
such as we have here declared them, and had been laid down with 
so much emphasis in his household, on coming to his estate, that 
he turned upon the servant, — for such he assumed the intruder 
to be — with the determination to pour forth no stinted measure of 
anger upon the rash person who had shown herself so heedless of 
his commands. 

The reader will be pleased to express no surprise, when we tell 
him that the nocturnal visitant of our young bachelor was no other 
than the Indian woman, Caloya. She had threaded her way, after 
nightfall, through all the mazes of the plantation, and, undiscovered 
and unnoticed, even by the watch dog who lay beneath the porch, 
had penetrated into the mansion and into the presence of its mas- 
ter. She had probably never been in the same neighbourhood 
before, but with that sagacity, — we might almost deem it an in- 
stinct — which distinguishes the North American Indian, probably, 
beyond all other people, — she had contrived to elude every habi- 
tation which lay between the “ Red Gulley” and the dwelling- 


406 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


house — to avoid contact with the negro houses of fifty slaves, and 
keep herself concealed from all observation, until that moment 
when she pleased to discover herself. The surprise of Gillison 
was natural enough. He rose, however, as soon as he was con- 
scious that the intruder was a stranger, and perceiving her to be 
an Indian, he readily concluded that she must be one of the squat, 
ters at the “ Red Gulley,” of whom the eloquent Mingo had given 
him such emphatic warning. With that due regard for the sex 
which always distinguishes the true gentleman, even when the 
particular object which calls for it may be debased and inferior, 
Gillison motioned her to a chair, and, with a countenance express- 
ing no other feelings than those of kindness and consideration, in- 
quired into hei wants and wishes. His language, to one of a tribe 
whom it is customary to regard as thieves and beggars, would 
pave proved him to be something less hostile to the sex, than his 
lousehold regulations would altogether seem to indicate. 

Caloya advanced with firmness, and even dignity, into the apart- 
ment. Her deportment was equally respectful and unconstrained. 
Her face was full of sadness, however, and when she spoke, it 
might have been observed that her tones were rather more trem- 
ulous than usual. She declined the proffered seat, and proceeded 
to her business with the straightforward simplicity of one having 
a single purpose. She began by unfolding a small bundle which 
she carried beneath her arm, and in which, when unrolled and 
laid upon- the table, Col. Gillison fancied he discovered a strong 
family likeness to that hunting shirt of his driver, of the fate of 
which he had received such melancholy intelligence a few hours 
before. But for the particularity of Mingo, in describing the 
rents and rips, the slits and slashes of his favourite garment, the 
youthful proprietor would have rashly jumped to the conclusion 
that this had been the same. His large confidence in the veraci- 
ty of Mingo, left him rather unprepared for the narrative which 
followed. In this narrative, Caloya did not ex. libit the greatest 
degree of tenderness towards the amorous driver. She freely 
and fully declared all the particulars of his forced intimacy with 
herself and husband from the beginning ; and though, with in- 
stinctive feminine delicacy, she suppressed every decided overture 
which the impudent Mingo had made to herself par amours, still 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 407 

there was enough shown, to enable his master to see the daring 
game which his driver, had been playing. Nor, in this narra- 
tive, did the woman omit to inform him of the hams and egss, th* 
chickens and the corn, which had been brought by the devoted 
negro in tribute to her charms. Up to this point, the story had as- 
sumed none but a ludicrous aspect in the sight of the young 
planter. The petty appropriations of his property of which Min- 
go had been guilty, did not awaken any very great degree of in- 
dignation, and, with the levity of youth, he did not seem to regard 
in the serious light which it merited, the wanton pursuit and las- 
civious purposes of the driver. But as the woman quietly pro- 
ceeded in her narrative, and described the violence which had 
destroyed her pottery, the countenance of the master darkened. 
This act seemed one of such determined malignity, that he inly 
determined to punish it severely. The next statement of Caloya 
led him to do more justice to virtue, and make a darker estimate 
yet of the doings of his driver. She did not tell him that her hus- 
band was jealous, but she unfolded the solemn requisition which 
he had last made of her to secure the arms of Mingo in her em- 
brace, while he revenged himself for the insults to which he had 
been subjected with the sharp edge of the hatchet. The young 
planter started as he heard the statement. His eye was fixed in- 
tently and inquiringly upon the calm, resolute, and seemingly 
frozen features of the speaker. She ceased to speak, an'.l the 
pause of a few seconds followed ere Gillison replied : 

“ But you and your husband surely mean not to murder the 
fellow, my good woman ? He has done wrong and I will have 
him punished ; but you must not think to use knife and hatchet 
upon him.” 

“ When Enefisto says ‘ strike’ to Caloya — Caloya will strike ! 
Caloya is the woman of Enefisto. Let not Mingo come into the 
wigwam of the Indian.” 

Gillison could not doubt her resolution as he heard the delib- 
erate and subdued accents of her voice, and surveyed the com- 
posed features of her countenance. The determination to do the 
bidding of her husband was there expressed in language the least 
equivocal. His own countenance was troubled; he had not 
resolved what course to pursue, and the woman, having fulfilled 


408 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


her mission, was about to depart. She had brought back the 
stolen coat, though, with the proper tenderness of a wife, she 
omitted to say that it had been stolen. According to her story 
Mingo had left it behind him on the myrtles. Her second object 
had been to save the driver from his fate, and no more effectual 
mode suggested itself to her mind than by revealing the whole 
truth to the master. This had been done and she had no further 
cause to stay. The young planter, after he had instituted a series 
of inquiries from which he ascertained what were the usual 
periods when Mingo visited the encampment, how he made his 
approaches, and in what manner the hovel was built, and where 
it lay, did not seek to delay her longer. His own knowledge of 
the “ Red Gulley” — a knowledge obtained in boyhood — enabled 
him to form a very correct notion of all the circumstances of the 
place ; and to determine upon the particulars of a plan which 
had risen in his mind, by which to save his driver from the 
danger which threatened him. This done, he begged her to await 
for a few moments his return, while he ascended to an upper 
chamber, from whence he brought and offered her a piece of 
bright calico, such as he well knew would be apt to provoke the 
admiration of an Indian woman ; but she declined it, shaking he-r 
head mournfully as she did so, and moving off hurriedly as if to 
lose the temptation from her sight as quickly as possible. Gilli- 
son fancied there was quite as much of despondency as pride in 
her manner of refusing the gift. It seemed to say that she had 
no heart for such attractions now. Such indeed was the true 
exposition of her feelings. What pride could she have in gor- 
geous apparel, allied to one so brutal, so cruel, so worthless as 
her husband ; and why should she care for such display, when, 
by his jealous policy, she was withdrawn from all connection 
with her people, in whose eyes alone she might desire to appear 
attractive. But the young planter was not to be refused. He 
would have forced the gift upon her, and when she suffered it to 
drop at her feet, he expressed himself in words of remonstrance, 
the tones of which were, perhaps, of more influence than the sense. 

“Why not take the stuff, my good woman? You have well 
deserved it, and much more at my hands. If you do not take it, 
I will think you believe me to be as bad as Mingo.” 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


409 


She looked at him with some earnestness for a few seconds, 
then stooping, picked up the bundle, and immediately placed it 
beneath her arm. 

“ No, no !” she said, “ white man is good. Black man is bad. 
Does the master remember ? Let not Mingo come into the wig- 
wam of Enefisto.” 

Colonel Gillison promised that he would endeavour to prevent 
any further mischief, and, with a sad smile of gratitude upon her 
countenance, the woman retired from his presence as stealthily as 
she came. He had enjoined her, if possible, to avoid being seen 
on leaving the settlement, and it was not hard for one of Catawba 
birth to obey so easy an injunction. She succeeded in gaining 
the “ Red Gulley” undiscovered, but there, to her consternation, 
who should she encounter, at the very first glance, but the impu- 
dent and formidable Mingo, sitting, cheek-by-jowl, with her 
jealous husband, each, seemingly, in a perfect mood of equal 
and Christian amity. It was a sight to gratify the credulous, but 
Caloya was not one of these. 


no 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Meanwhile, the youthful master of the veteran Mingo, medi- 
tated in the silence of his hall, the mode by which to save that 
amorous persohage from the threatened consequences of his 
impertinence. Not that he felt any desire to screen the fellow 
from chastisement. Had he been told that husband and wife had 
simply resolved to scourge him with many stripes, he would have 
struck hands and cried “ cheer” as Loudly as any more indifferent 
spectator. But the vengeance of the Catawba- Othello, promised 
to be of a character far too extreme, and, the inferior moral sense 
and sensibility of both Indian and negro considered, too greatly dis- 
proportion ed to the offence. It was therefore necessary that what 
he proposed to do should be done quickly ; and, taking his hat, 
Colonel Gillison sallied forth to the negro quarter, in the centre 
of which stood the superior habitation of the Driver. His object 
was simply to declare to the unfaithful servant that his evil 
designs and deeds were discovered, as well by himself as by the 
Catawba — to promise him the due consequences of his falsehood 
to himself, and to warn him of what he had to fear, in the event 
of his again obtruding upon the privacy of the squatters. To 
those who insist that the working classes in the South should enjoy 
the good things of this world in as bountiful a measure as the 
wealthy proprietors of the soil, it would be very shocking to see 
that they lived poorly, in dwellings which, though rather better than 
those of the Russian boor, are yet very mean in comparison with 
those built by Stephen Girard, John Jacob Astor, and persons of that 
calibre. Nay, it would be monstrous painful to perceive that the 
poor negroes are constantly subjected to the danger of ophthalmic 
and other diseases, from the continued smokes in which they live, 
the fruit of those liberal fires which they keep up at all seasons, and 
which the more fortunate condition of the poor in the free States, 
does not often compel them to endure at any. It would not 
greatly lessen the evil of this cruel destiny, to know that each 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 4 l i 

had his house to himself, exclusively; that he had his little garden 
plat around it, and that his cabbages, turnips, corn and potatoes, 
not to speak of his celery, his salad, &c., are, in half the number 
of cases, quite as fine as those which appear on his master’s 
table. Then, his poultry-yard, and pig- pen — are they not there 
also ? — but then, it must be confessed that his stock is not quite 
so large as his owner’s, and there, of course, the parallel ‘must 
fail. He has one immunity, however, which is denied to the 
owner. The hawk, (to whose unhappy door most disasters of the 
poultry yard are referred,) seldom troubles his chickens — his 
hens lay more numerously than his master’s, and the dogs always 
prefer to suck the eggs of a white rather than those of a black 
proprietor. These, it is confessed, are very curious facts, inscru- 
table, of course, to the uninitiated ; and, in which the irreverent 
and sceptical alone refuse to perceive any legitimate cause of 
wonder. You may see in his hovel and about it, many little 
additaments which, among the poor of the South, are vulgarly con- 
sidered comforts ; with the poor of other countries, however, as 
they are seldom known to possess them, they are no doubt 
regarded as burthens, which it might be annoying to take care of 
and oppressive to endure. A negro slave not only has his own 
dwelling, but he keeps a plentiful fire within it for which he pays 
no taxes. That he lives upon the fat of the land you may readily 
believe, since he is proverbially much fatter himself than the 
people of any other class. He has his own grounds for cultiva- 
tion, and, having a taste for field sports, he keeps his own dog for 
the chase — an animal always of very peculiar characteristics, 
some of which we shall endeavour one day to analyse and de- 
velope. He is as hardy and cheerful as he is fat, and, but for one 
thing, it might be concluded safely that his condition was very 
far before that of the North American Indian — his race is more 
prolific, and, by increasing rather than diminishing, multiply 
necessarily, and unhappily the great sinfulness of mankind. 
This, it is true, is sometimes urged as a proof of improving civili- 
zation, but then, every justly-minded person must agree with 
Miss Martineau, that it is dreadfully immoral. We suspect we 
have been digressing. 

Col. Gillison soon reached the negro quarter, and tapping at the 


412 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


door of the Driver’s wigwam, was admitted, after a brief par- 
ley, by the legitimate spouse of that gallant. Mingo had been 
married to Diana, by the Reverend Jonathan Buckthorn, a 
preacher of the Methodist persuasion, who rode a large circuit, 
and had travelled, with praiseworthy charity, all the way from 
Savannah River, in all weathers, and on a hard going nag, simply 
to unite this worthy couple in the holy bonds of wedlock. At 
that time, both the parties were devout members of the Church, 
but they suffered from frequent lapses; and Mingo, having been 
engaged in sundry liaisons — which, however creditable to, and 
frequent among the French, Italian and English nobility, are 
highly censurable in a slave population, and a decisive proof of 
the demoralizing tendency of such an institution — was, at the 
formal complaint of the wife, “ suspended” from the enjoyment 
of the Communion Table, and finally, on a continuance of this 
foreign and fashionable practice, fully expelled from all the priv- 
ileges of the brotherhood. Diana had been something of a 
termagant, but Mingo had succeeded in outstorming her. For 
the first six months after marriage, the issue was considered 
very doubtful ; but a decisive battle took place at the close of 
that period, in which the vigorous woman was compelled to give 
in and Mingo remained undisputed master of the field. But 
though overthrown and conquered, she was not quiescent ; and 
her dissatisfaction at the result, showed itself in repeated strug- 
gles, which, however, were too convulsive and transient, to render 
necessary any very decided exercise -of the husband’s energies. 
She growled and grumbled still, without cessation, and though 
she did not dare to resent his frequent infidelities, she neverthe- 
less pursued them with an avidity, and followed the movements 
of her treacherous lord with a jealous watchfulness, which proved 
that she did not the less keenly feel them. Absolute fear alone 
made her restrain the fury which was yet boiling and burning in 
her soul. When her master declared his desire to see Mingo, 
what was her answer ? Not, certainly, that of a very dutiful or 
well satisfied spouse. 

“ Mingo, mossa ? Whay him dey ? Ha ! mossa, you bes’ ax 
ebbrv woman on de plantation ’fore you come to he own wife. I 
bin marry to Mingo by Parson Buckthorn, and de Parson bin make 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


413 

Mingo promis’ for lub and ’bey me, but he forget all he promise 
tree clay after we bin man and wife. He nebber bin lub ’t all ; 
and as for ’bey, — lor’ ha’ massy ’pon me, mossa, I speak noting 
but de trute when l tell you, — he ’bey ebbry woman from yer to 
town ’fore he ’bey ne own dear wife. Der’s not a woman, mossa, 
Son de tree plantation, he aint lub more dan Di. Sometime he 
gone to Misser Jacks place — die hab wife dere ! Sometime he 
gone to Misser Gabeau — he hab wife dere ! Nex’ time, he gone 
to Squir’ Collins, — he hab wife dere! Whay he no hab wife, 
mossa 1 Who can tell ? He hab wife ebbry which whay, and 
now, he no sacrify , lie gone — you aint gwine to bleeb me, mossa, 

I know you aint — he gone and look for wife at Indian camp, 
whay down by de ‘ Red Gulley.’ De trute is, mossa, Mingo is a 
mos’ powerful black rascal of a nigger as ebber lib on gentleman 
plantation.” 

It was fortunate for young Gillison that he knew something of 
the nature of a termagant wife, and could make allowances for 
the injustice of a jealous one. He would otherwise have been 
persuaded by what he heard that his driver was one of the most 
uncomely of all the crow family. Though yielding no very 
credulous faith to the complaints of Diana, he still found it impos-. 
sible to refuse to hear them ; and all that he could do by dint of 
perseverance, was to diminish the long narratives upon which she # 
was prepared to enter to prove her liege lord to be no better than 
ne should be. Having exhausted all his efforts and his patience 
in the attempt to arrive at some certain intelligence of the hus- 
band’s “ whereabouts,” without being able to divert the stream of 
her volubility from the 'accustomed channels, he concluded by 
exclaiming — 

“ Well, d — n the fellow, let him take the consequences. He 
stands a chance of having his throat cut before twenty-four hours 
are over, and you will then be at liberty, Di., to get a husband 
who will be more faithful. Should Mingo not see me by ten 
o’clock to-morrow, he’s a dead man. So, you had better stir 
your stumps, my good woman, and see after him, unless you are 
willing to be a widow before you have found out a better man for 
your husband. Find Mingo and send him to me to-night, or he s 
a dead man to-morrow,” 


414 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


“ Le’ ’em dead — who care ? He d’zarb for dead. I sure he 
no care if Di bin dead twenty tousand time. Le’ ’em dead !” 

Gillison left the hut and proceeded to other parts of the settle- 
ment where he thought it not improbable that the driver might be 
found ; but a general ignorance was professed by all the negroes 
with respect to the particular movements of that worthy ; and he 
soon discovered that his search was fruitless. He gave it up in 
despair, trusting that he should be able to succeed better at an 
hour seasonably early in the morning, yet half disposed, from 
his full conviction of his roguery, to leave the fellow to his fate. 

Strange to say, such was not the determination of the dissatis- 
fied Diana. Wronged and neglected as she had been, and was, 
there was still a portion of the old liking left, which had first 
persuaded her to yield her youthful affections to the keeping of 
this reckless wooer ; and though she had avowed her willingness 
to her young master, that the “ powerful black rascal of a nigger” 
should go to the dogs, and be dog’s meat in twenty-four hours, 
still, better feelings came back to her, after due reflection, to soften 
her resolves. Though not often blessed with his kind words and 
pleasant looks, now-a-days, still, “ she could not but remember 
such things were, and were most precious to her.” 

Left to herself, she first began to repeat the numberless conju- 
gal offences of which he had been guilty ; but the memory of 
these offences did not return alone. She remembered that these 
offences brought with them an equal number of efforts at atone- 
ment on the part of the offender : and when she thought of his 
vigorous frame, manly, dashing and graceful carriage, his gor- 
geous coat, his jauntily worn cap, his white teeth, and the insinu- 
ating smile of his voluminous lips, she could not endure the idea 
of such a man being devoted to a fate so short and sudden as that 
which her young master had predicted. She had not been told, it is 
true, from what quarter this terrible fate was to approach. She 
knew not under what aspect it would come, but the sincerity of her 
master was evident in his looks, words, and general air of anxiety, 
and she was convinced that there was truth in Lis assurance. Per 
haps, her. own attachment for the faithless husband — disguised as 
it was by her continual grumbling and discontent — was sufficiently 
strong to bring about this conviction easily. Diana determined 
to save her husband, worthless antf wicked as he was, — and pos- 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER 


415 


sibly, some vague fancy may have filled her mind as she came 
to this resolution, that, gratitude alone, for so great a service, 
might effect a return of the false one to that allegiance which 
love had hitherto failed to secure. She. left her dwelling to seek 
him within half an hour after the departure of her master. But 
the worst difficulty in her way was the first. She trembled, with 
the passion of returning jealousy when she reflected that the most 
likely place to find him would be at the “ Red Gulley” in instant 
communion with a hateful rival: — a red Indian — a dingy squaw, — 
whose colour, neither white nor black, was of that sort, which, 
according to Diana in her jealous mood, neither gods nor men 
ought to endure. Her husband’s admiration she naturally as- 
cribed to Catawba witchcraft. She doubted — she hesitated — she 
almost re-resolved against the endeavour. Fortunately, however, 
her better feelings prevailed. She resolved to go forward — to 
save her husband — but, raising her extended hands and parted 
fingers, as she came to this determination, and gnashing her teeth 
with vindictive resolution as she spoke, she declared her equal 
resolve to compensate herself for so great a charity, by sinking 
her ten claws into the cheeks of any copper coloured damsel 
whom she should discover at the Red Gulley in suspicious pro- 
pinquity with that gay deceiver whom she called her lord. 
Having thus, with due solemnity, registered her oath in Heaven — • 
and she was not one under such circumstances to “ lay perjury upon 
her soul”— she hurried away under the equal impulse of a desire 
to save Mingo, and to “ capper-claw” Caloya. It was not long 
after, that young Gillison, who was more troubled about the fate 
of his driver than he was willing to acknowledge even to himself, 
came to a determination also to visit the “ Red Gulley.” A little 
quiet reflection, after he had reached home, led him to fear that he 
might not be in season to prevent mischief if he waited till the 
morning for Mingo’s appearance ; and a sudden conjecture that., 
at that very moment, the audacious negro might be urging his 
objects in the wigwam of the squatters, made him fearful that 
ever his instant interference would prove too late. As soon as 
this conjecture filled his mind, he seized his cap, and grasping his 
rifle, and calling his favourite dog, set forth with all possible 
speed towards the spot, destined to be memorable forever after, in 
all local chronicles, in consequence of these events. 


41b 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The horror and vexation of Caloya may be imagined, when, 
on returning from her visit to the master of the impudent Mingo, 
she discovered him, cheek-by-jowl, with her husband. The poor 
woman was miserable in the extreme from various causes. Re- 
solved steadfastly and without scruple to do the will of her jeal- 
ous spouse, she yet shrank from the idea of perpetrating the bloody 
deed which the latter contemplated, and which was so suitable to 
the fierce character of Indian vindictiveness. She was, in fact, 
a gentle, though a firm, simple, and unaffected woman, and had 
not this been the prevailing nature of her heart, the kindness with 
which Gillison had received, and the liberality with which he had 
treated her, would have been sufficient to make her reluctant to 
do any thing which might be injurious to his interests. 

But, taught in the severe school of the barbarian those lessons 
which insist always upon the entire subordination of the woman, 
she had no idea of avoiding, still less of rebelling against, the au- 
thority which prescribed her laws. “ To hear was to obey,” and 
with a deep sigh she advanced to the wigwam, with a firm reso- 
lution to do as she had been commanded, though, with a prayer 
in her mind, not the less fervent because it remained unspoken by 
her lips, that the fearful necessity might pass away, and her hus- 
band be prevented, and she be spared, the commission of the 
threatened deed. 

It was deemed fortunate by Caloya, that, observing the habitual 
caution of the Indian, she had kept within the cover of the woods 
until the moment when she came within sight of the wigwam. 
This caution enabled her still to keep from discovery, and “ fetch- 
ing a compass” in the covert so as to pass into the rear of the hut, 
she succeeded by pulling away some fragments of the bark which 
covered it, in entering its narrow precincts without having been 
perceived. With a stealthy footstep and a noiseless motion, she 
deposited her bundle of calicoes in a corner of the hut, and sink 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OP THE DRIVER. 


417 


ing down beside it, strove to still even those heavings of her anx- 
ious bosom, which she fancied, in her fears, might become audible 
to* the persons without. 

To account for the return of Mingo Gillison to the spot where 
he had been guilty of so much impertinence, and had done so 
much mischief, is not a difficult matier. It will here be seen that 
he was a fellow whom too much authority had helped to madden 
— that he was afflicted with the disease of intense self-consequence, 
and that his passions, accordingly, were not always to be restrain- 
ed by prudence or right reason. These qualities necessarily led 
to frequent errors of policy and constant repentings. He had not 
many moral misgivings, however, and his regrets were solely 
yielded to the evil results, in a merely human and temporary 
point of view, which followed his excesses of passion and frequent 
outbreaks of temper. Fie had not well gone from the “ Red Gul- 
ley” after annihilating the pottery thereof, without feeling what a 
fool he had been. He readily conceived that his rashness would 
operate greatly, not only against his success with the woman, but 
against his future familiarity with the man. It was necessary 
that he should heal the breach with the latter if he hoped to win 
any favours from the former ; and, with this conviction, the rest 
of the day was devoted to a calm consideration of the modus ope- 
randi by which he might best succeed in this desire. A rough 
investigation of the moral nature of an Indian chief, led Mingo to 
the conclusion that the best defence of his conduct, and the hap- 
piest atonement which he could offer, would be one which was ad- 
dressed to his appetites rather than, to his understanding. Ac- 
cordingly, towards nightfall, having secured an adequate supplv 
of whiskey — that bane equally of negro and Indian — he prepared 
with some confidence, to re-appear before the parties whom he 
had so grievously offended. Fie had his doubts, it is true, cf the 
sort of reception which he should meet ; — he was not altogether 
sure of the magical effect of the whiskey, in promoting Christian 
^charity, and leading the savage to forgiveness ; but none of the 
apprehensions of Mingo were of persopal danger. He would have 
laughed to scorn a suggestion of harm at the hands of so infirm 
and insignificant a person as Richard Knuckles ; and looking 
upon his own stout limbs and manly frame, he would have found 


418 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


in the survey, a sufficient assurance that Mihgo Gillison was 
equally irresistible to man and wife. It was with a boldness of 
carriage, therefore, that corresponded adequately with the degree 
of confidence which he felt in his equal powers of persuasion, and 
the whiskey, rather than his personal prowess, that he appeared 
that night before the hovel of the squatters. He found Knuckles 
alone, and seated a little in advance of his habitation. The In- 
dian was sober from the necessity of the case. The policy of the 
negro had not lately allowed him liquor, and he had not himself 
any means for procuring it. He watched the approach of the 
enemy without arising from the turf, and without betraying in his 
look any of that hostility which was active in his bosom. His 
face, indeed, seemed even less grave than usual, and a slight 
smile upon his lips, in which it would have tasked a far more 
suspicious eye than that of Mingo to have discovered anything 
sinister, betrayed^seemingly, a greater portion of good humour 
than usually softened his rigid and coarse features. Mingo ap- 
proached with a conciliating grin upon his visage, and with hands 
extended in amity. As the Indian did not rise to receive him, he 
squatted down upon his haunches on the turf opposite, and setting 
down the little jug which he brought between them, clapped the 
Indian on his shoulders with a hearty salutation, which was meant 
to convey to the other a pleasant assurance of his own singular 
condescension. 

“Knuckles, my boy, how you does? You’s bex with me, I 
reckons, but there’s no needcessity for that. Say I did kick over 
the pots and mash the pans ? — well ! I can pay for ’em, can’t I ? 
When a man has got the coppers he’s a right to kick ; there’s no 
use to stand in composition with a fellow that’s got the coppers. 
He kin throw down and he kin pick up — he kin buy and he kin 
sell ; he kin break and he kin men’ ; he kin gib and he kin tak’ ; 
he kin kill and he kin eat — dere’s no’ting he can’t do ef he hab 
money — he’s mossa to all dem d — d despisable raekrobates, what’s 
got no coppers. I once bin’ ye’r a sarmint from Parson Buck- 
thorn, and he tink on dis object jis’ as you ye’r me tell you. He 
tex’ is take from de forty-seben chapter — I ’speck it’s de fortv* 
aeben — wh'ch say, ‘ what he gwine to profit a gemplcman what’s 
mak’ de best crop in de world, if he loss he soul,’ — which is de 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


419 


same t’ing, Knuckles, you know, as ef I was to ax you, wha’s 
de difference ef Mingo Gillison kick over you’ pans and pots, and 
bre’k ’em all to smash, and ef he pick ’em, like he pick up eggs, 
widout bre’k any, so long as he pay you wha’ you ax for ’em. 
You sell ’em, you git you money, wha’ matter wha’ I do wid ’em 
arter dat? I bre’k ’em or I men’ ’em, jis’ de same t’ing to you. 
'Spose I eat ’em, wha’s de difference ? He stick in Mingo stom- 
ach. he no stick in your’n ; and all de time de coppers is making 
purty jingle in you’ pocket. Well, my boy, I come to do de t’ing 
now. I bre’k you’ pots, I ’tan ye’r to pay you for ’em. But you 
mus’ be t’irsty, my old fellow, wid so much talking — tak’ a drink 
’fore we exceed to business.” 

The Catawba needed no second invitation. The flavour of the 
potent beverage while the negro had been so unprofitably declaim- 
ing, ascended to his nostrils with irresistible influence, in spite of 
the stopper of corn cob which imperfectly secured it, and which, 
among the negroes of the Southern plantations, makes a more com- 
mon than seemly apology for a velvet cork. The aroma of the 
beverage soon reconciled Knuckles to the voice of his enemy, and 
rendered those arguments irresistible, which no explanations of 
Mingo could ever have rendered clear. As he drank, he became 
more and more reconciled to the philosophy of his comrade, and, 
strengthened by his draughts, his own became equally explicit 
and emphatic. 

“ Ha ! Ha ! Biskey good too much !” was the long drawn and 
fervent exclamation which followed the withdrawal of the reluc- 
tant vessel from his lips. 

“ You may say dat wid you’ own ugly mout’, Dick, and tell no 
lie '□other,” was the cool response. “ Any biskey is good ’nough, 
but dat’s what I calls powerful fine, Dat! fourt’ proof, genny- 
vvine, and ’trong like Sampson, de Philistian. Der’s no better in 
all Jim Hollon’s ’stablishment. We gin a mighty great price for 
it, so it ought to be good, ef ther’s. any justice done. But don’t 
stan’, Krfuckles — ef you. likes it, sup at it again. It’s not like 
some women’s I know — it gives you smack for smack, and holds 
on as long as you let it.” 

“ Huh ! — woman’s is fool !” responded the savage with an air 
of resentment which his protracted draught of the potent beverage 


120 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


did not altogether dissipate. The reference to the sex reminded 
him of his wife, and when he looked upon the speaker he was also 
reminded of his presumptuous passions, and of the forward steps 
which he had taken for their gratification. But his anger did not 
move him to any imprudence so long as the power of reflection was 
left him. It was only as his familiarity with the bottle advanced 
that his jealous rage began to get the better of his reason and lead 
him into ebullitions, which, to a more acute or less conceited per- 
son than Mingo, would have certainly betrayed the proximity of 
that precipice in the near neighbourhood of which he stood. The 
savage grew gradually eloquent on the subject of woman’s worth- 
lessness, weakness, folly, &c. ; and as the vocabulary of broken 
and imperfect English which he possessed was any thing but co- 
pious, his resort to the Catawba was natural and ready to give 
due expression to his resentment and suspicions. 

“ Huh ! woman is fool — Ingin man spit ’pon woman — ehketee 
— boozamogettee ! — d — n, — d — n, — damn ! tree d — n for wo- 
man ! — he make for cuss. Caloya Ganchacha ! — he dog, — he 
wuss dan dog — romonda ! — tree time dog ! anaporee, toos-wa-ne- 
dah ! Ingin man say to woman, go ! fill you mout’ wid grass, — 
woman is dog for cuss !” 

The English portion of this blackguardism is amply sufficient 
to show the spirit of the speaker, without making necessary any 
translation of that part of the speech, which, in his own dialect, 
conceals matter far more atrocious. Enough was understood by 
Mingo, as well from the action and look of the Catawba, as from 
the vulgar English oath which he employed in connection with 
his wife’s sex and name, to convince the negro that Caloya was an 
object rather of hate than of suspicion to her worthless husband. 
As this notion filled his sagacious cranium, new hopes and fancies 
followed it, and it was with some difficulty that he could suppress 
tht eagc r and precipitate utterance of a scheme, which grew out 
of this very grateful conjecture. 

“You no lub woman, Knuckles, — eh ?” • 

“ Huh ! woman is dog. Ingin man say to dog — go ! and he 
go ! — say to dog, come, and he come ! Dog hunt for meat, wo- 
man’s put meat in de pot ! Woman is dog and dog is woman. 


CALOYA; 0&, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVEtt. 421 


Nomonda-yavv-ee — d — n tree time — wassiree — woman is tree 
time d — n !” 

“ Well, Knuckles, old boy ! take a drink ! You don’t seem to 
defections womans no how !” 

“ Hell -‘inquiringly. 

“ Prehaps you don’t altogether know what I mean by defec- 
tions ? Well, I’ll tell you. Defections means a sort of chieken- 
lub ; as if you only had it now and then, and something leetler 
than common. It aint a pow’rful attack, —it don’t take a body 
about de middle as I may say, and gib ’em an up and down h’isE 
It’s a sort of lub that lets you go off when you chooses, and come 
back when you wants to, and don’t keep you berry long about it« 
That’s to say, it’s a sort of defections.” 

A monosyllable from the Indian, like the last, attested any thing 
but his mental illumination in consequence of the very elaborate 
metaphysical distinctions which Mingo had undertaken. But 
the latter was satisfied that Knuckles should have become wiser 
if he had not ; and he proceeded, making short stages toward the 
point which he desired to attain. 

“ Well, now, Knuckles, if so be you don’t affections womans, 
what makes you keeps her ’bout you ? Ef she’s only a dog in 
your sight, why don’t you sen’ her a-packing ? Ingin man kin 
find somebody, I ’speck, to take care ob he dog for ’em.” 

“ Heh ? Dog— wha’ dog?” 

“ Dat is to say — but take a drink, old fellow ! Take a long 
pull — dat jug’s got a long body, an’ you may turn it upside 
down heap o’ times ’fore you’ll git all the life out of it. It 
gin my arm a smart tire, I kin tell you, to tote it all the way 
here ! Dat is to say — but sup at it agin, Knuckles, — please do 
pigs, you don’t know much about what’s good, or you would ’nt 
put it down, tell the red water begins to come into you’ eyes.” 

“ Aw — yaw — yaw ! Biskey good too much !” 

Was the exclamation, accompanied with a long drawn, hissing 
sound, of equal delight and difficulty, which issued spontaneously 
from the Indian’s mouth, as he withdrew the jug from his lips. 
The negro looked at him -with manifest satisfaction. His eyes 
were suffused with water, and exhibited a hideous stare of ex- 
citement and imbecility. A fixed glaze was overspreading them 


422 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


fast, revealing some of those fearful aspects which distinguish 
the last fleeting gleams of consciousness in the glassy gaze of 
the dying. , Portions of the liquor which, in his feebleness he had 
failed to swallow, ran from the corners of his mouth ; and his 
fingers, which still clutched the handle of the jug, were contract- 
ed about it like the claws of a vulture in the spasms of a mortal 
agony. Plis head, as if the neck were utterly unsinewed, swung 
from side to side in his repeated efforts to raise it to the usual In- 
dian erectness, and, failing in this attempt, his chin sunk at last 
and settled down heavily upon his breast. Pie was evidently in 
prime condition for making a bargain, and, apprehensive that he 
might have overdone the matter, and that the fellow might be too 
stupid even for the purposes of deception, Mingo hastened with 
due rapidity to make the proposition which he had conceived, 
and which was of a character with the audacity of his previous 
designs. 

“ Well, Knuckles, my frien’, what’s to hender us from a trade ? 
Ef so be you hates woman’s and loves Biskey — ef woman’s, is 
a d — n dog, and biskey is de only ting dat you most defections 
in dis life, — den gib me you d — n dog, and I’ll gib you ’nough 
and plenty of de ting you lub. You yerry me ?” 

“ Aw, yaw, yaw, yaw ! Biskey berry good !” A torrent of 
hiccoughs concluded the reply of the Indian, and for a brief 
space rendered the farther accents of the negro inaudible even 
to himself. 

“ To be sure, — da’s trute ! Biskey is berry good, and da’s 
wha’ I’m sayin’ to you, ef you’d only pay some detention. I’m 
a offering you, Knuckles— I’m offering to buy you dog from you. 
I’ll gib you plenty biskey for you dog. Wha’ you say, man ? 
eh?” 

“ Aw, yaw ! Black man want Ingin dog !” The question was 
concluded by a faint attempt to whistle. Drunkenness had made 
the Catawba more literal than usual, and Mingo’s apprehensions 
increased as he began to apprehend that he should fail entirely in 
reaching the understanding of his companion. 

“ Psho 1 git out, Knuckles, I no want you’ four-legged dog — 
it’s you’ two-legged dog I day arter. Enty you bin call you 


CALOYA; OR, T1IE LOVES OF THE DRIVER 


423 


woman a dog ? Enty you bin say, dat you wife, Caloya, is d — n 
dog?” 

“ Ya-ou ! ramonda yau-ee, Caloya ! woman is tree time d — n 
log!” 

“ To be sure he is. Da’s wha we bin say. Now, I want dog, 
Knuckles; and you hab dog wha’s jis suit me. You call him 
Caloya — you dog ! You sell me Caloya, I gie you one whole 
barrel biskey for da same dog, Caloya.” 

“ Hah !” was the sudden exclamation of the Indian, as this im- 
pudent but liberal offer reached his senses ; but, whether in ap- 
probation or in anger, it was impossible, in the idiot inexpressive- 
ness of his drunken glance, for the negro to determine. He 
renewed his offer with certain additional inducements in the 
shape of pipes and tobacco, and concluded with a glowing eu- 
logy upon the quality of his “ powerful, fine, gennywine, fourt’ 
proof,” the best in Holland’s establishment, and a disparaging ref- 
erence to the small value of the dog that he was prepared to buy 
with it. When he finished, the Indian evidently comprehended 
him better, and laboured under considerable excitement. He 
strove to speak, but his words were swallowed up in hiccoughs, 
which had been increasing all the while. What were his senti- 
ments, or in what mind he received the offer, the negro vainly strove, 
by the most solicitous watchfulness, to ascertain ; but he had too 
completely overdosed his victim, and the power of speech seemed 
entirely departed. This paralysis did not, however, extend entirely 
to his limbs. He struggled to rise, and, by the aid of a hickory 
twig which grew beside him, he .succeeded in obtaining a doubtr 
ful equilibrium, which he did not, however, very long preserve. 
His hand clutched at the knife within his belt, but whether the 
movement was designed to vindicate his insulted honour, or was 
simply spasmodic, and the result of his condition, could not be 
said. Muttering incoherently at those intervals which his con- 
tinual hiccoughing allowed, he wheeled about and rushed incon- 
tinently towards the hovel, as if moved by some desperate design. 
He probably knew nothing definitely at that moment, and had no 
precise object. A vague and flickering memory of the instruc- 
tions he had given to his wife, may have mingled in with his 
thoughts in his drunken mood, and probably prompted him to the 


424 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN. 


call which he thrice loudly made upon her name. She did not 
answer, but, hav ing heard in her place of concealment the offen- 
sive proposition which the negro had made her husband, she now 
crouched doubly cbsely and cautious, lest the latter, under this 
novel form of provocation, might be moved to vent his wrath 
upon her head. Perhaps, too, she fancied, that by remaining 
quiet, she miglT escape the necessity of contributing in any wise 
to the execution of the bloody plot in which his commands had 
engaged her. Whatever may have been her fear, or the pur- 
poses of the husband, Caloya remained silent. She moved not 
from the corner in which she lay, apprehensively waiting events, 
and resolved not to move or show herself unless her duty obvi- 
ously compelled her. 

Mingo, meanwhile, utterly blinded by his prodigious self-es- 
teem, construed all the movements of the Catawba into favoura- 
ble appearances in behalf of his desires ; and when Knuckles 
entered the hovel calling upon his wife, he took it for granted 
that the summons had no other object than to deliver the pre- 
cious commodity into his own hands. This conviction warmed 
his imagination to so great a degree, that he forgot all his pru- 
dence, and following Knuckles into the wigwam, he prepared to 
take possession of his prize, with that unctuous delight and de- 
votedness which should convince her that she too had made an 
excellent bargain by the trade. But when he entered the hovel, 
he was encountered by the savage with uplifted hatchet. 

“Hello, Knuckles, wha’ you gwine to do wid you’ hatchet? 
You wouldn’t knock you bes’ frien’ ’pon de head, eh ?” 

“ Nigger is d — n dog !” cried the savage, his hiccoughs suffi- 
ciently overcome by his rage to allow him a tolerable clear utter- 
ance at last. As he spoke the blow was given full at the head 
of the driver. Mingo threw up his left hand to ward off the 
stroke, but was only partially successful in doing go. The keen 
steel smote the hand, divided the tendon between the fore-finger 
and thumb, and fell with considerable force upon the forehead. 

“ Oh you d — n black red-skin, you kill mossa best nig- 
ger !” shrieked the driver, who fancied, in the first moment of 
his pain, that his accounts were finally closed with the world. 
The blood, streaming freely from the wound, though it lessened 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 425 

the stunning effects of the blow, yet blinded his eyes and increas 
ed his terrors. He felt persuaded that no surgeon could do him 
service now, and bitterly did he reproach himself for those amor- 
ous tendencies which had brought him to a fate so unexpected 
and sudden. It was the very moment when the exhortations of 
the Rev. Jonathan Buckthorn would have found him in a blessed 
state of susceptibility and saving grace. The evil one had not 
suffered so severe a rebuke in his present habitation for a very 
long season. But as the Reverend Jonathan was not nigh to take 
advantage of the circumstance, and as the ‘hapless Mingo felt the 
continued though impotent struggle of his enemy at his feet, his 
earthly passions resumed their sway, and, still believing that he 
had not many hours to live, he determined to die game and have 
his revenge in his last moments. The Catawba had thrown his 
whole remaining strength into the blow, and the impetus had car- 
ried him forward. He fell upon his face, and vainly striving and 
striking at the legs of his opponent, lay entirely at his mercy; 
his efforts betraying his equal feebleness and fury. At first 
Mingo doubted his ability to do anything. Though still standing, 
he was for some time incapable of perceiving in that circumstance 
any strong reason for believing that he had any considerable por- 
tion of vitality left, and most certainly doubted his possession of 
a sufficient degree of strength to take his enemy by the throat. 
But with his rage came back his resolution, and with his resolu- 
tion his vigour. 

“ Ef I don’t stop your kicking arter dis, you red sarpent, 
my name’s Blind Buzzard. Ef Mingo mus’ dead, you shall 
dead too, you d — n crooked, little, old, red rascal. I’ll squeeze 
you t’roat, tell you aint got breat’ ’nough in you body to scar’ 
’way musquito from peeping down your gullet. Lor’ ha’ mas- 
sey ! — to ’tink Mingo mus’ dead ’cause he git knock on de head 
by a poor, little, shrinkle up Injun, dat he could eat up wid he 
eyes and no make tree bite ob he carcass.” 

This reflection increased the wrath of the negro, who prepared 
with the most solemn deliberation to take the Indian’s life by 
strangling him. With this design he let his knee drop upon the 
body of the prostrate Knuckles, while' his hand was extended in 
order to secure an efficient grasp upon his throat. But his move- 


426 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


ments had been closely watched by the keen-eyed Caloya from the 
corner where she crouched, who, springing forward at the peril- 
ous moment, drew* the hatchet from the hand of the sprawling 
and unconscious savage and took an attitude of threatening 
which effectually diverted the anger of the negro. Surprised at 
her appearance, rather than alarmed at her hostility, he began to 
conjecture, in consequence of the returning passion which he felt, 
that his danger was not so great as he had at first fancied. The 
sight of those charms which had led him into the danger, seemed 
to induce a pleasant fbrgetfulness of the hurts which had been 
the result of his rashness ; and with that tenacity of purpose 
which distinguishes a veteran among the sex, the only thought of 
Mingo was the renewal of his practices of evil. He thought no 
more of dying, and of the Reverend Jonathan Buckthorn, but 
with a voice duly softened to the gentler ears which he was pre- 
paring to address, he prefaced his overtures by a denunciation of 
the “ dead-drunk dog what was a-lying at his foot.” A wretch, 
as he loudly declared, who was no more worthy of such a wo- 
man than he was worthy of life. 

“ But der’s a man wha’s ready to tak’ you, my lubly one, and 
tak’ care ob you, and treat you as you d’zarb. He’s a gemple- 
man — he’s no slouch, nor no sneak. He’s always dress in de 
bes’ — he’s always hab plenty for eat and plenty for drink — der’s 
no scarcity where he hab de mismanagement ; and nebber you’ll 
hab needcessity for work, making mud pot and pan, ef he tak’ you 
into his defections. 1 reckon, Caloya, vou’s want for know who 
is dat pusson I tell you ’bout. Who is dat gempleman wha’s ready 
for do you so much benefactions? Well! look a’ yer, Caloya, 
and I reckon you’ll set eye on de very pusson in perticklar.” 

The woman gave him no answer, but still, with weapon uplifted, 
kept her place, and maintained a watch of the utmost steadfast- 
ness upon all his movements. 

“ Wha’ ! you won’t say not’ing ? Can’t be you care someting 
for dis bag of feaders, wha’s lie at my foot !” 

With these words the irreverent negro stirred the body of 
Knuckles with his foot, and Caloya sprang upon him in the same 




instant, and with as determined a hand as ever her husband’s had 


been, struck as truly, though less successfully, at the forehead of 


CALOYA ; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 427 


her wooer. This time, Mingo was rather too quick to suffer harm 
from a feebler arm than his own. His eye detected her design 
the moment she moved, and he darted aside in season to avoid the 
blow. With equal swiftness he attempted to seize her in his arms 
the instant after, but, eluding his grasp, she backed towards the 
entrance of the wigwam, keeping her weapon uplifted, and evi- 
dently resolved to use it to the best advantage as soon as an oppor- 
tunity offered. Mingo was not to be baffled in this fashion — the 
difficulties in the way of his pursuit seemed now reduced to a sin- 
gle issue — the husband was hors de combat, and the wife — she cer- 
tainly held out only because she was still in his presence. To 
this moment, Mingo never doubted that his personal prowess and 
pretensions had long since impressed Caloya with the most indul- 
gent and accessible emotions. He advanced, talking all the while 
in the most persuasive accents, but without inducing any relaxation 
of watchfulness or resolution on the part of the woman. He was 
prepared to rush upon, and wrest the hatchet from her hand — and 
farther ideas of brutality were gathering in his mind — when he 
was arrested by the presence of a new and annoying object which 
suddenly showed itself at the entrance and over the shoulder of 
the Indian woman. This was no other than his lawful spouse, 
Diana. 

“ Hello, Di ! what de dibble you come for, eh V 9 

“ I come for you, to be sure. Wha’ de dibble you is doing yer, 
vvid Injun woman V 9 

Surprised at the strange voice, and feeling herself somewhat 
secure in the presence of a third person, Caloya ventured to look 
round upon the new comer. The sight of her comely features 
was a signal of battle to the jealous wife, who, instantly, with a 
fearful shriek, struck her talons into the cheeks of her innocent ri- 
val, and followed up the assault by dashing her head into her face. 
The hatchet fell involuntary upon the assailant, but the latter had 
too successfully closed in, to receive much injury from the blew,- 
which, however, descended upon her back, between the shoulders, 
and made itself moderately felt. Diana, more vigorous than the 
Indian woman, bore her to the earth, and, doubtlessly, under her 
ideas of provocation, would have torn her eyes from their sockets, 
but for the prompt interposition of her husband, who, familiar with 


428 


THE WIGWAM AND TIIE CABIN. 


the marital rights sanctioned by the old English law, prostrated her 
to the earth with a single blow of his fist. He might have follow- 
ed up this violence to a far less justifiable extent, for the audacity 
which his wife had shown had shocked all his ideas of domestic 
propriety, but that he was interrupted before he could proceed 
further by a hand which grasped tightly his neckcloth from be- 
hind, and giving it a sudden twist, curtailed his powers of respi- 
ration to a most annoying degree. He turned furiously though 
with difficulty upon the new assailant, to encounter the severe 
eyes of his young master. 

Here was an explosion ! Never was an unfaithful steward more 
thoroughly confounded. But the native impudence of Mingo did 
not desert him. He had one of the fairest stories in the world to 
tell. He accounted for every thing in the most rational and in- 
nocent manner — but in vain. Young Gillison had the eye of a 
hawk when his suspicions were awakened, and he had already 
heard the testimony of the Indian woman, whom he could not 
doubt. Mingo was degraded from his trust, and a younger negro 
put over him. To compensate the Indian woman for the injuries 
which she received, was the first care of the planter as he came 
upon the ground. He felt for her with increased interest as she 
did not complain. He himself assisted her from the ground and 
conducted her into the wigwam. There, they found Knuckles 
almost entirely insensible. The liquor with which the negro had 
saturated him, was productive of effects far more powerful than^ 
he had contemplated. Fit had succeeded to fit, and paralysis 
was the consequence. When Gillison looked upon him, he saw 
that he was a dying man. By his orders, he was conveyed that 
night to the settlement, where he died the next day. 

Caloya exhibited but little emotion, but she omitted no attention. 
She observed the decorum and performed all the duties of a wife. 
The young planter had already learned to esteem her, and when, 
the day after the funeral, she prepared to return to her people, 
who were upon the Edisto, he gave her many presents which she 
received thankfully, though with reluctance. 

A year after, at the same season, the “ Red Gulley”- was occu- 
pied by the whole tribe, and the evening following their arrival, 
Col. Gillison, sitting within the hall of his family mansion, was 


CALOYA; OR, THE LOVES OF THE DRIVER. 


42S 


surprised by the unexpected appearance of Caloya. She looked 
younger than before, comelier, and far more happy. She was 
followed by a tall and manly looking hunter, whom she introduced 
as her husband, and who proved to be the famous Chickawa, of 
whom poor old Knuckles had been so jealous. The grateful Ca* 
loya came to bring to the young planter a pair of moccasins and 
leggins, neatly made and fancifully decorated with beads, which, 
with her own hands, she had wrought for him. He received them 
with a sentiment of pleasure, more purely and more enduringly 
sweet than young men are often apt to feel ; and, estee.ming her 
justly, there were few articles of ordinary value in his posses- 
sion with which he would not sooner have parted, than the sim- 
ple present of that Catawba woman. 


430 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


LUCAS DE AYLLON- 

a HISTORICAL NOUVELLETTE-* 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SNARE OF THE PIRATE. 

Sebastian Cabot is supposed to have been the first European 
voyager who ever laid eyes upon the low shores of Carolina. 
He sailed along the coast and looked at it, but did not attempt to 
land, — nor was such a proceeding necessary to his objects. His 
single look, according to the laws and morals of that day, in civ- 
ilized Europe, conferred a sufficient right upon the nation by which 
he was employed, to all countries which he might discover, and 
to all people, worshipping at other than Christian altars, by whom 
they might be occupied. The supposed right, however, thus ac- 
quired by Cabot, was not then asserted by the English whom he 

* The three chapters which constitute this narrative, originally formed part 
of a plan which I meditated of dealing with the early histories of the South, 
somewhat after the manner of-Henry Neele, in his Romance of English His- 
tory. Of course I did not mean to follow slavishly imthe track pointed out by 
him, nor, indeed, would the peculiar and large difference between our respec- 
tive materials, admit of much similarity of treatment. The reader must under- 
stand that the essential facts, as given in these sketches, are all historical, and 
that he is in fact engaged in the perusal of the real adventures of the Spanish 
voyager, enlivened only by the introduction of persons of whom history says 
nothing in detail — speaking vaguely, as is but too much her wont, of those 
whose deficient stature fails to inform of to influence her sympathies. It is 
the true purpose of fiction to supply her deficiencies, and to correct her judg- 
ments. It will be difficult for any chronicler to say, of what I have written, 
more than that he himself knows nothing about it. But his ignorance suggests 
no good reason why better information should not exist in my possession. 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


431 


served. It was reserved for another voyager, who, with gi eater 
condescension, surveyed the coast and actually set foot upon it. 
This was Lucas Velasquez de Ayllon, whose adventures in Car- 
olina we propose briefly to relate. Better for him that he had 
never seen it ! — or, seeing it, if he had posted away from its shores 
for ever. They were the shores of destiny for him. But he 
was a bad man, and we may reasonably assume that the Just 
Providence had ordained that his crime's should there meet with 
that retribution which they were not likely to encounter any where 
else. Here, if he found paganism, he, at the same time, found 
hospitality ; and here, if he brought cunning, he encountered 
courage ! Fierce valour and generous hospitality were the natu- 
ral virtues of the Southern Indians. 

But we must retrace our steps for a brief period. Some pre- 
liminaries, drawn from the history of the times, are first neces- 
sary to be understood. — The feebleness of the natives of Hayti, 
as is well known, so far from making them objects of pity and 
indulgence in the sight of. other Spanish conquerors, had the con- 
trary effect of converting an otherwise brave soldiery into a’ reck- 
less band of despots, as brutal in their performances as they 
were unwise in their tyrannies. The miserable Indians sunk 
under their domination. The blandness of their climate, its de- 
licious fruits, the spontaneous gifts of nature, had rendered them 
too effeminate for labour and too spiritless for war. Their extermi- 
nation was threatened ; and, as a remedial measure, the benevo- 
lent father, Las Casas, — whose humanity stands out conspicuously 
in contrast with the proverbial cruelty and ferocity of his coun- 
trymen, — suggested the policy of making captures of slaves, to 
take the places of the perishing Haytians, from the Caribbean 
Islands and from the coasts of Florida. The hardy savages ot 
these regions, inured to war, and loving it for its very dangers 
and exercises, were better able to endure the severe tasks which 
were prescribed by the conquerors. This opened a new branch 
of business for these bold and reckless adventurers. Predatory 
incursions were made along the shores of the Gulf, and seldom 
without profit. In this way one race was made to supersede an- 
other, in the delicious country which seems destined never to 
rear a population suited to its characteristics. The stubborn and 


432 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


sullen Caribbean was made to bend his shoulders to the burden, 
but did not the less save the feeble Haytian from his doom. The 
fierce tribes of Apalachia took the place of the delicate limbed 
native of the Ozama ; and. in process of years, the whole southern 
coasts of North America became tributary, in some degree, to 
the novel and tyrannical policy which was yet suggested by a 
spirit of the most genuine benevolence. 

The business of slave capture became somewhat more profita- 
ble than the fatiguing and protracted search after gold — a search 
much more full of delusions than of any thing substantial. It 
agreed better with the -hardy valour of those wild adventurers. 
Many bold knights adopted this new vocation. Among these 
was one Lucas Velasquez de Ayllon, already mentioned as suc- 
ceeding Cabot in his discovery of Carolina. He was a stern, 
cold man, brave enough for the uses to which valour w T as put in 
those days ; but having the narrow contracted soul of a miser, he 
was incapable of noble thoughts or generous feelings. The love 
of gold was the settled passion of his heart, as it was too much 
‘.he passion of his countrymen. He soon distinguished himself 
by his forays, and was among the first to introduce his people to 
a knowledge of Carolina, where they subsequently made them- 
selves notorious by their atrocities. Some time in. the year 1520, 
he set forth, in two ships, on an expedition of this nature. He 
seems to have been already acquainted with the region. Wend- 
ing north, he soon found himself in smooth water, and gliding 
along by numberless pleasant islands, that broke the billows of 
the sea, and formed frequent and safe harborages along the coasts 
of the country. Attracted by a spacious opening in the shores, 
he stood in for a prominent headland, to which he gave the 
name of Cape St. Helena ; a name which is now borne by the 
contiguous sound. The smoothness of the waters ; the placid 
and serene security of this lovely basin ; the rich green of the 
verdure which encountered the eyes of the adventurers on all sides, 
beguiled them onward ; and they were at length rejoiced at the sight, 
— more grateful to their desire than any other, as it promised them 
the spoil's which they sought — of numerous groups of natives 
that thronged the lands-ends at their approach. They cast anchor 


LUCAS DU AYLLON. 


433 


near the mouth of a river, which, deriving its name from the 
Queen of the country, is called, to this day, the Combahee. 

The natives were a race as unconscious of guile as they were 
fearless of danger. They are represented to have been of very 
noble stature ; graceful and strong of limb ; of bright, dark 
flashing eyes, and of singularly advanced civilization, since the) 
wore cotton clothes of their own manufacture, and had even 
made considerable progress in the arts of knitting, spinning and 
vea%ing. They had draperies to their places of repose ; and 
some of the more distinguished among their women and warriors, 
wore thin and flowing fringes, by way of ornament, upon which 
a free and tasteful disposition of pearls might occasionally be seen. 
Like many other of the native tribes, they were governed by a 
queen whose name has already been given. The name of the 
country they called Chicora, or, more properly, Chiquola. 

Unsuspecting as they were brave, the savages surrounded the 
vessels in their boats, and many of them even swam off from 
shore to meet them ; being quite as expert in the water as upon 
the land. The wily Spaniard spared no arts to encourage and 
increase this confidence. Toys and implements of a kind likely 
to attract the eyes, and catch the affections, of an ignorant peo- 
ple, were studiously held up in sight ; and, by little and little, 
they grew bold enough, at length, to clamber up the sides of the 
ships, and make their appearance upon the decks. Still, with 
all their arts, the number of those who came on board was small, 
compared with those who remained aloof. It was observed by 
the Spaniards that the persons who forbore to visit them were 
evidently the persons of highest consequence. Those who came, 
as constantly withdrew to make their report to others, who eithe • 
stayed on the land, or hovered in sight, but at a safe distance, in 
their light canoes. De x\yllon shrewdly conjectured that if he 
could tempt these more important persons to visit his vessels, the 
great body of the savages would follow. His object was num 
bers ; and his grasping and calculating soul scanned the crowds 
which were in sight, and thought of the immense space in his 
hold, which it was his policy and wish to fill. To bring about 
his object, he spared none of the customary modes of temptation. 
Beads and bells were sparingly distributed to those who came, 

29 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


434 

and they were instructed by signs and sounds tc depart, and 
return with their companions. To a certain extern, this policy 
had its effect, but the appetite of the Spaniard was not easily 
glutted. 

He noted, among the hundred canoes that darted about the 
bay, one that was not only of larger size and better construction 
than the rest, but which was fitted up with cotton stuffs and 
fringes like some barge of state. He rightly conjectured that 
this canoe contained the Cassique or sovereign of the country. 
The canoe was dug from a single tree, and was more than forty 
feet in length. It had a sort of carfbpy of cotton stuff near the 
stern, beneath which sat several females, one of whom was of 
majestic demeanour, and seemed to be an object of deference with 
all the rest. It did not escape the eyes of the Spaniards that her 
neck was hung with pearls, others were twined about her brows, 
and gleamed out from the folds of her long glossy black hair, 
which, streaming down her neck, was seen almost to mingle with 
the chafing billows of the sound. The men in this vessel were 
also most evidently of the better order. All of them were clad 
in fringed cotton stuffs of a superior description to those worn by 
the gathering multitude. Some of these stuffs were dyed of a 
bright red and yellow, and plumes, similarly stained, were fas- 
tened in many instances to their brows, by narrow strips of col- 
oured fringe, not unfrequently sprinkled artfully with seed pearl. 

The eyes of De Ayllon gloated as he beheld this barge, from 
which he did not once withdraw his glance. But, if he saw the 
importance of securing this particular prize, he, at the same time, 
felt the difficulty of such a performance. The Indians seemed 
not unaware of the special value of this canoe. It was kept 
aloof, while all the rest ventured boldly alongside the Spanish 
vessels. A proper jealousy of strangers, — though it does not 
seem that they had any suspicion of their particular object — re- 
strained the savages. To this natural jealousy, that curiosity 
which is equally natural to ignorance, was opposed. De Ayllon 
was too sagacious to despair of the final success of this superior 
passion. He redoubled his arts. His hawk’s bells were made 
to jingle from the ship’s side ; tinsel, but bright crosses — the ho- 
liest sign in the exercise of his religious faith — were hung in view, 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


435 


abused as lures for the purposes of fraud and violence. No toy, 
which had ever yet been found potent in Indian traffic, was with- 
held from sight ; and, by little and little, the unconscious arms of 
the Indian rowers impelled the destined bark nearer and nearer 
to the artful Spaniards. Still, the approach was slow. The 
strokes of the rowers were frequently suspended, as if in obedi- 
ence to orders from their chiefs. A consultation was evidently 
going on among the inmates of the Indian vessels. Other canoes 
approached it from the shore. The barge of state was surrounded. 
It was obvious that the counsellors were averse to the unneces- 
sary exposure of their sovereigns. 

It was a moment of anxiety with De Ayllon. There were not 
twenty Indians remaining on his decks ; at one time there had 
been an hundred. He beheld the hesitation, amounting to seem- 
ing apprehension, among the people in the canoes ; and he now 
began to reproach himself with that cupidity, which, grasping at 
too much, had probably lost all. But so long as curiosity hesi- 
tates there is hope for cupidity. De Ayllon brought forth other 
lures : he preferred fraud to fighting. 

“ Look !” said a princely damsel in the canoe of state, as a 
cluster of bright mirrors shone burningly in the sunlight. “ Look .!” 
— and every eye followed her finger, and every feminine tongue 
in the vessel grew clamorous for an instant, in its own language, 
expressing the wonder which was felt at this surpassing display. 
Still, the canoe hung, suspended on its centre, motionless. The 
contest was undecided : a long, low discussion was carried on be- 
tween a small and select number in the little vessel. De Ayllon 
saw that but from four to five persons engaged in this discussion. 
One of these, only, was a woman — the majestic but youthful 
woman, of whom we have already given a brief description. 
Three others were grave middle-aged men ; but the fourth was 
a tall, bright-eyed savage, who had scarcely reached the term of 
manhood, with a proud eager aspect, and a form equally com- 
bining strength and symmetry. He wore a coronet of eagle 
feathers, and from his place in the canoe, immediately next that 
of the queen, it was inferred correctly by the Spanish captain 
that he was her husband, fie spoke earnestly, almost angrily ; 
pointed several times t<? the ships, whenever the objects of attrac- 


436 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


tion were displayed ; and, from his impatient manner, it was 
very clear that the counsel to which he listened did not corres- 
pond with the desires which he felt. But the discussion was soon 
ended. De Ayllon waved a bright scimitar above his head, and 
the young chief in the canoe of state started to his feet, with an 
unrestrainable impulse, and extended his hand for the gift. The 
brave soul of the young warrior spoke out without control when 
he beheld the true object of attraction. De Ayllon waved the 
weapon encouragingly, and bowed his head, as if in compliance 
with his demand. The young savage uttered a few words to his 
people, and the paddles were again dipped in water ; the bark 
went forward, and, from the Spanish vessel, a rope was let down 
to assist the visitors as soon as they were alongside. 

The hand of the young chief had already grasped the rope, 
when the fingers of Combahee, the queen, with an equal mixture 
of majesty and grace, were laid upon his arm. 

“ Go not, Chiquola,” she said, with a persuasive, entreating 
glance of her deep, dark eyes. He shook off her hand impa- 
tiently, and, running up the sides of the vessel, was already safely 
on the deck, before he perceived that she was preparing to follow 
him. He turned upon her, and a brief expostulation seemed to 
follow from his lips. It appeared as if the young savage was 
only made conscious of his imprudence, by beholding hers. She 
answered him with a firmness of manner, a dignity and sweetness 
so happily blended, that the Spanish officers, who had, by this 
time, gathered round them, looked on and listened with surprise. 
The young chief, whom they learned to call by the name of Chi- 
quola — which they soon understood was that of the country, also — 
appeared dissatisfied, and renewed his expostulations, but with 
the same effect. At length he waved his hand to the canoe, and, 
speaking a few words, moved once more to the side of the ship at 
which she had entered. The woman’s eye brightened ; she an- 
swered with a single word, and hurried in the same direction. 
De Ayllon, fearing the loss of his victims, now thought it time to 
interfere. The sword, which had won the eyes of the *young 
warrior at first, was again waved in his sight, while a mirror of the 
largest size was held before the noble features of the Indian prin- 
cess. The youth grasped the weapon, and laughed with a delighted 


LUCAS DE AYLLON 


437 


out brief chuckle as he looked on the glittering steel, and shook 
it hurriedly in the air. He seemed to know the use of such an 
instrument by instinct. In its contemplation, he forgot his own 
suspicions and that of his people ; and no more renewing his sug- 
gestions to depart, he spoke to Combahee only of the beauties and 
the use of the new weapon which had been given to his hands. 

The woman seemed altogether a superior person. There was 
a stern mournfulness about her, which, while it commanded re- 
spect, did not impair the symmetry and sweetness of her very in- 
telligent and pleasing features. She had the high forehead of our 
race, without that accompanying protuberance of the cheek bones, 
which distinguished hers. Her mouth was very small and sweet, 
like that which is common to her people. Her eyes were large, 
deeply set, and dark in the extreme, wearing that pensive earnest- 
ness of expression which seems to denote presentiment of many 
pangs and sorrows. Her form, we have already said, was large 
and majestical ; yet the thick masses of her glossy black hair 
streamed even to her heels. Superior to her companions, male 
as well as female, the mirror which had been put into her hands 
— a glance at which had awakened the most boisterous clamours 
of delight among her female attendants, all of whom had followed 
her into the Spanish vessel — was laid down, after a brief exami- 
nation, with perfect indifference. Her countenance, though nol 
uninformed with curiosity, was full of a most expressive anxiety. 
She certainly felt the wonder which the others showed, at the 
manifold strange objects which met their eyes ; but this feeling 
was entertained in a more subdued degree, and did not display 
itself in the usual language of surprise. She simply seemed to 
follow the footsteps of Chiquola, without participating in his plea- 
sures, or in that curiosity which made him traverse the ship in every 
accessible quarter, from stem to stern, seeking all objects of nov- 
elty, and passing from one to the other with an appetite which 
nothing seemed likely soon to satiate. 

Meanwhile, the example set by their Queen, the Cassiques, the 
[awas, or Priests, and other headmen of the Nation, was soon fol- 
lowed by the common people ; and De Ayllon had the satisfaction, 
)n exchanging signals with his consort, to find that both ships 
were crowded with quite as many persons as they could possibly 


438 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


carry. The vessel under his immediate command was scarcely 
manageable from the multitudes which thronged her decks, and 
impeded, in a great measure, all the operations of the crew. He 
devised a remedy for this evil, and, at the same time, a measure 
very well calculated to give complete effect to his plans. Re- 
freshments were provided in the hold ; wines in abundance ; and 
the trooping savages were invited into that gloomy region, which 
a timely precaution had rendered more cheerful in appearance 
by the introduction of numerous lights. A similar arrangement 
conducted the more honourable guests into the cabin, and a free 
use of the intoxicating beverages, on the part of the great body 
of the Indians, soon rendered easy all the remaining labours of 
the wily Spaniard. The hatches were suddenly closed when the 
hold was most crowded, and two hundred of the unconscious and 
half stupid savages were thus entrapped for the slave market of 
the City of Columbus. 

In the cabin the same transaction was marked by some dis- 
tinguishing differences. The wily De Ayllon paid every atten- 
tion to his guests. A natural homage was felt to be the due of 
royalty and rank, even among a race of savages ; and this senti- 
ment was enforced by the obvious necessity of pursuing that course 
of conduct which would induce the confidence of persons who had 
already shown themselves so suspicious. De Ayllon, with his 
officers, himself attended Chiquola and the Queen. The former 
needed no persuasion. He freely seated himself on the cushions 
of the cabin, and drank of the proffered wines, till his eyes danced 
with delight, his blood tingled, and his speech, always free, be- 
came garrulity, to the great annoyance of Com bailee. She had 
followed him with evident reluctance into the interior of the ves 
sel ; and now, seated with the rest, within the cabin, she watched 
the proceedings with a painful degree of interest and dissatisfac- 
tion, increasing momently as she beheld the increasing effect upon 
•lira- of the wine which he had taken. She herself utterly de- 
clined the proffered liquor ; holding herself aloof with as much 
natural dignity as could have been displayed by the most polished 
princess of Europe. Her disquiet had made itself understood b^ 
her impatience of manner, and by frequent observations in her own 
language, to Chiquola. These, of course, could be understood 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


439 


only by themselves and their attendants But the Spaniards were 
at no loss to divine the purport of her speech from her tones, the 
expression of her face, and the quick significant movements of 
her hands. 

At length she succeeded in impressing her desires upon Chi- 
quola, and he rose to depart. But the Spaniards had no intention 
io suffer this. The plot was now ready for execution. The sig- 
nal had been made. The entrance to the cabin was closed, and 
a single bold and decisive movement was alone necessary to end 
the game. De Ayllon had taken care silently to introduce seve- 
ral stout soldiers into the cabin, and these, when Chiquola took a 
step forward, sprang upon him and his few male companions and 
bore them to the floor. Chiquola struggled with a manful cou- 
rage, which, equally with their forests, was the inheritance of the 
American Indians ; but the conflict was too unequal, and it did 
not remain doubtful very long. De Ayllon saw that he was se- 
cure, and turned, with an air of courteous constraint, to the spot 
where Combahee stood. He approached her with a smile upon 
his countenance and with extended arms ; but she bestowed upon 
him a single glance ; and, in a mute survey, took in the entire 
extent of her misfortune. The whole proceeding had been the 
work of an instant only. That she was taken by surprise, as 
well as Chiquola, was sufficiently clear ; but her suspicions had 
never been wholly quieted, and the degree of surprise which she 
felt did not long deprive her of her energies. If her eye betrayed 
the startled apprehension of the fawn of her native forests, it 
equally expressed the fierce indignation which flames in that of 
their tameless eagle. She did not speak as De Ayllon ap- 
proached ; and when, smiling, he pointed to the condition of Chi- 
quola, and with extended arms seemed to indicate to her the 
hopelessness of any effort at escape, she hissed at him, in reply, 
with the keen defiance of the angry coppersnake. He advanced 
— his hand was stretched forth towards her person — when she 
drew up her queenly form to its fullest height ; and, with a sin- 
gle word hurriedly spoken to the still struggling Chiquola, she 
turned, and when De Ayllon looked only to receive her submis- 
sion, plunged suddenly through the stern windows of the cabin, 
and buried herself in the deep waters of the sea. 


440 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


CHAPTER II. 

CHIQUOLA, THE CAPTIVE. 

“ Now mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast^bleeding and torn.” 

Campbell. 

The flight of Combahee, and her descent into the waters of the 
bay, were ominous of uproar. Instantly, the cry of rage arose 
from a thousand voices. The whole body of the people, as with 
a common instinct, seemed at once to comprehend the national 
calamity. A dozen canoes shot forth from every quarter, 
with the rapidity of arrows in their flight, to the rescue of the 
Queen. Like a bright mermaid, swimming at evening for her 
own green island, she now appeared, beating with familiar skill 
the swelling waters, and, with practised hands, throwing behind 
her their impelling billows. Her long, glossy, black hair was 
spread out upon th« surface of the deep, like some veil of net- 
work meant to conceal from immodest glances the feminine form 
below. From the window of the cabin whence she disappeared) 
De Ayllon beheld her progress, and looked upon the scene with 
such admiration as was within the nature of a soul so mercenary. 
He saw the fearless courage of the man in all her movements, and 
never did Spaniard behold such exquisite artifice in swimming 
on the part of any of his race. She was already in safety. She 
had ascended, and taken her seat in one of the canoes, a dozen 
contending, in loyal rivalry, for the privilege of receiving her 
person. 

Then rose the cry of war ! Then sounded that fearful whoop 
of hate, and rage, and defiance, the very echoes of which have 
made many a faint heart tremble since that day. It was proba- 
bly, on this occasion, that the European, for the first time, listened 
to this terrible cry of war and vengeance. At the signal, the 
canoes upon the bay scattered themselves to surround the ships j 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


441 


the warriors along the shore loosened the fasts of the boats, and 
pushed off* to join the conflict ; while the hunter in the forests, 
stopped sudden in the eager chase, sped onward, with all the 
feeling of coercive duty, in the direction of those summoning 
sounds. 

The fearless Combahee, with soul on fire, led the van. She 
stood erect in her canoe. Her form might be seen from every 
part of the bay. The hair still streamed, unbound and dripping, 
from her shoulders. In her left hand she grasped a bow such as 
would task the ability of the strong man in our day. Her 
right hand was extended, as if in denunciation towards that 

“ fatal bark 

Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark,” 

in which her husband and her people were held captive. Truly, 
hers was the form and the attitude for a high souled painter ; — 
one, the master of the dramatic branches of his art. The flash- 
ing of her eye was a voice to her warriors ; — the waving of her 
hand was a summons that the loyal and the brave heart sprang 
eager to obey ! A shrill signal issued from her half parted lips, 
and the' now numerous canoes scattered themselves on every side 
as if to surround. the European enemy, or, at least, to make the 
assault on both vessels simultaneous. 

The Spaniard beheld, as if by magic, the whole bay covered 
with boats. The light canoes were soon launched from the 
shore, and they shot forth from its thousand indentations as fast 
as the warriors poured down from the interior. Each of these 
warriors came armed with the bow, and a well filled quiver of 
arrows. These were formed from the long canes of the adjacent 
swamps ; shafts equally tenacious and elastic, feathered with 
plumes from the eagle or the stork, and headed with triangular 
barbs of flint, broad but sharp, of which each Indian had always 
a plentiful supply. The vigour with which these arrows were 
impelled from the string was such, that, without the escaupil or 
cotton armour which the Spaniards generally wore, the shaft has 
been known to pass clean through the body of the victim. Thus 
armed and arranged, with numbers constantly increasing, the 
people of Combahee, gathering at her summons, darted boldly 


442 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


from the shore, and, taking up positions favourable to the attack, 
awaited only the signal to begin. 

Meanwhile, the Spanish ships began to spread forth their broad 
wings for flight. Anticipating some such condition of things as 
the present, the wily De Ayllon had made his preparations for 
departure at the same time that he had planned the scheme for 
his successful treachery. The one movement was devised to fol- 
low immediately upon the footsteps of the other. His sails were 
loosened and flapping in the wind. To trim them for the breeze, 
which, though light, was yet favourable to his departure, was the 
work of a moment only ; and ere the word was given for the attack, 
on the part of the Indians, the huge fabrics of the Spaniards be- 
gan to move slowly through the subject waters. Then followed 
the signal. First came a shaft from Combahee herself; wel. 
aimed and launched with no mean vigour ; that, striking full on 
the bosom of De Ayllon, would have proved fatal but for the 
plate mail which was hidden beneath his coat of buff. A wild 
whoop succeeded, and the air was instantly clouded by the close 
flight of the Indian arrows. Nothing could have been more de- 
cided, more prompt and rapid, than this assault. The shaft had 
scarcely been dismissed from the string before another supplied its 
place; and however superior might have been the armament of 
the Spanish captain, however unequal the conflict from the greater 
size of his vessels, and the bulwarks which necessarily gave a 
certain degree of protection, it was a moment of no inconsider- 
able anxiety to the kidnappers ! De Ayllon, though a base, was 
not a bloody-minded man. His object was spoil, not slaughter. 
Though his men had their firelocks in readiness, and a few pieces 
of cannon were already prepared and pointed, yet he hesitated to 
give the word, which should hurry into eternity so many ignorant 
fellow beings upon whom he had just inflicted so shameful an 
injury. He commanded his men to cover themselves behind the 
bulwarks, unless where the management of the ships required 
their unavoidable exposure, and, in such cases, the persons em- 
ployed were provided with the cotton armour which had been 
usually found an adequate protection against arrows shot by the 
feeble hands of the Indians of the Lucayos. 

Bu the vigorous savages of Combahee were a very different 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


443 


ra«/e. They belonged to the great family of the Muscoghees ; 
the parent stock, without question, of those indomitable tribes 
which, under the names of Yemassee, Stono, Muscoghee, Micka- 
sukee, and Seminole, have made themselves remembered and 
feared, through successive years of European experience, with- 
out having been entirely quelled or quieted to the present hour. 
It was soon found by De Ayllon that the escaupil was no protec- 
tion against injury. It baffled the force of the shaft but could not 
blunt it, and one of the inferior officers, standing by the side of 
the commander, was pierced through his cotton gorget. The 
arrow penetrated his throat, and he fell, to all appearance, mor- 
tally wounded. The Indians beheld his fall. They saw the 
confusion that the event seemed to inspire, and their delight was 
manifested in a renewed shout of hostility, mingled with screams, 
which denoted, as clearly as language, the delight of savage tri- 
umph. Still, De Ayllon forbore to use the destructive weapons 
which he had in readiness. His soldiers murmured ; but he an- 
swered them by pointing to the hold, and asking : 

“ Shall we cut our own throats in cutting theirs ? I see not 
present enemies but future slaves in all these assailants.” 

It was not mercy but policy that dictated his forbearance. 
But it was necessary that something should be done in order to 
baffle and throw off the Indians. The breeze was too light and 
baffling, and the movements of the vessels too slow to avoid 
them. The light barks of the assailants, impelled by vigorous 
arms, in such smooth water, easily kept pace with the progress of 
the ships. Their cries of insult and hostility increased. Their 
arrows were shot, without cessation, at every point at which an 
enemy was supposed to harbour himself; and, under the circum- 
stances, it was not possible always to take, advantage of a cover in 
performing the necessary duties which accrued to the seamen of 
the ships. The Indians had not yet heard the sound of European 
cannon. De Ayllon resolved to intimidate them. A small piece, 
such as ifi that day was employed for the defence of castles, call- 
ed a falconet, was elevated above the canoes, so that the shot, 
passing over the heads of their inmates, might take effect upon 
the woods along the shore. As the sudden and sullen roar of this 
unexpected thunder was heard, every Indian sunk upon his 


144 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


knees; every paddle was dropped motionless in the water; while 
the uplifted bow fell from the half-paralyzed hands of the war- 
rior, and he paused, uncertain of safety, but incapable of flight. 
The effect was great, but momentary only. To a truly brave 
people, therfe is nothing more transient than the influence of panic. 
When the Indian warriors looked up, they beheld one of their 
people still erect— unalarmed by the strange thunder — still look- 
ing the language, — still acting the part of defiance , — and, oh ! 
shame to their manhood, this person was their Queen. Instead 
of fear, the expression upon her countenance was that of scorn. 
They took fire at the expression. Every heart gathered new 
warmth at the blaze shining from her eyes. Besides, they dis- 
covered that they were unharmed. The thunder was a mere 
sound. They had not seen the bolt. This discovery not only 
relieved their fears but heightened their audacity. Again they 
moved forward. Again the dart was clapt upon the string. 
Singing one chorus, the burden of which, in our language, would 
be equivalent to a summons to a feast of vultures, they again set 
their canoes in motion ; and now, not as before, simply content 
to get within arrow distance, they boldly pressed forward upon 
the very course of the ships ; behind, before, and on every side , 
sending their arrows through every opening, and distinguishing, 
by their formidable aim, every living object which came in sight. 
Their skill in the management of their canoes ; in swimming ; 
their great strength and agility, prompted them to a thousand acts 
of daring ; and some were found bold enough to attempt, while 
leaping from their boats, beneath the very prow of the slowly ad- 
vancing vessels, to grasp the swinging ropes and thus elevate 
themselves to individual conflict with their enemies. These fail- 
ed, it is true, and sank into the waters ; but such an event impli- 
ed no sort of risk to these fearless warriors. They were soon 
picked up by their comrades, only to renew', in this or in other 
forms, their gallant but unsuccessful efforts. 

But these efforts might yet be successful. Ships in those days 
were not the monstrous palaces which they are in ours. An 
agile form, under favouring circumstances, might easily clamber 
* up their sides ; and such was the equal activity and daring of 
the savages, a* to make it apparent to De Ayllon that it would 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


445 


need something more decisive than had yet been done, on his 
part, to shake, himself free from their inveterate hostility. At a 
moment when their fury was redoubled and increased by the im- 
punity which had attended their previous assaults, — when every 
bow was uplifted and every arrow pointed under the eye of their 
Queen, as if for a full application of all their strength, and skill 
and courage ; — her voice, now loud in frequent speech, inciting 
them to a last and crowning effort ; and she herself, erect in her 
bark as before, and within less than thirty yards of the Spanish 
vessel ; — at this moment, and to avert the storm of arrows which 
threatened his seamen who were then, perforce, busy with the 
rigging in consequence of a sudden change of wind ; — De Ayllon 
gave a signal to bring Chiquola from below. Struggling be- 
tween two Spanish officers, his arms pinioned at the elbows, the 
young Cassique was dragged forward to the side of the Vessel 
and presented to the eyes of his Queen and people, threatened 
with the edge of the very weapon which had beguiled him to the 
perfidious bark. 

A hollow groan arose on every hand. The points of the up- 
lifted arrows were dropped ; and, for the first time, the proud 
spirit passed out of the eyes of Combahee, and her head sunk 
forward, with an air of hopeless self-abandonment, upon her breast ! 
A deep silence followed, broken only by the voice of Chiquola. 
What he said, was, of course, not understood by his captors ; but 
they could not mistake the import of his action. Thrice, while 
he spoke to his people, did his hand, wresting to th& utmost the 
cords upon his arms, smite his heart, imploring, as it were, the 
united arrows of his people to this conspicuous mark. But the 
Amazon had not courage for this. She was speechless ! Every 
eye was turned upon her, but there was no answering response in 
hers ; and the ships of the Spaniard proceeded on their way to 
the sea with a momently increasing rapidity. Still, though no 
longer assailing, the canoes followed close, and kept up the same 
relative distance between themselves and enemies, which had 
been observed before. Combahee now felt all her feebleness, and 
as the winds i lcreased, and the waves of the bay feeling the 
more immediate influence of the ocean, rose into long heavy 
swells, the complete conviction of her whole calamity seemed tc 


446 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


rush upon her soul. Chiquola had now been withdrawn from 
sight. His eager adjurations to his Queen and people, might, it 
was feared, prompt them to that Roman sort of sacrifice which 
the captive himself seemed to implore ; and perceiving that the 
savages had suspended the assault, De Ayllon commanded 
his removal. But, with his disappearance, the courage of his 
Queen revived. Once more she gave the signal for attack in a 
discharge of arrows ; and once more the captive was set before 
their eyes, with the naked sword above his head, in terrorem , as 
before. The same effect ensued. The arm of hostility hung 
suspended and paralyzed. The cry of anguish which the cruel 
spectacle extorted from the bosom of Cornbahee, was echoed by 
that of the multitude ; and without a purpose or a hope, the 
canoes hovered around the course of the retreating ships, till the 
broad Atlantic* with all its mighty billows, received them.— 
The vigorous breath of the increasing wind, soon enabled them tc 
shake off their hopeless pursuers. Ye" still the devoted savages 
plied their unremitting paddles ; the poor Queen straining hei 
eyes along the waste, until, in the grey of twilight and of distance 
the vessels of the robbers were completely hidden from her sight. 

Meanwhile, Chiquola was hurried back to the cabin, with his 
arms still pinioned. His feet were also fastened and a close 
watch was put upon him. It was a courtesy which the Spaniards 
considered due to his legitimacy that the cabin was made his 
place of imprisonment. With his withdrawal from the presence 
of his people, his voice, his eagerness and animation, all at once 
ceased. He sunk down on the cushion with the sullen, stolid in- 
difference which distinguishes his people in all embarrassing situ- 
ations. A rigid immobility settled upon his features ; yet De 
Ayllon did not fail to perceive that when he or any of his offi- 
cers approached the captive, his eyes gleamed upon them with 
the fury of his native panther; — gleamed bright, with irregular 
flashes, beneath his thick black eye- brows, which gloomed heav- 
ily over their arches with the collected energies of a wild and 
stubborn soul. 

“ He is dangerous,” said De Ayllon, “ be careful how you ap- 
proach him.” 

But though avoided he was not neglected, De Ayllon himself 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


447 


proffered him food ; not forgetting to tender him a draught of that 
potent beverage by which he had been partly overcome before. 
But the sense of wrong was uppermost, and completely subdued 
the feeling of appetite. He regarded the proffer of the Spaniard 
with a keen, but composed look of ineffable disdain ; never lifted 
his hand to receive the draught, and beheld it set down within his 
reach without indicating, by word or look, his consciousness of 
what had been done. Some hours had elapsed and the wine and 
food remained untouched. His captor still consoled himself with 
the idea that hunger would subdue his stubbornness ; — but when 
the morning came, and the noon of the next day, and the young 
savage still refused to eat or drink, the case became serious ; and 
the mercenary Spaniard began to apprehend that he should lose 
one of the most valuable of his captives. He approached the 
youth and by signs expostulated with him upon his rejection of 
the food ; but he received no satisfaction. The Indian remained 
inflexible, and but a single glance of his large, bright eye, re- 
quited De Ayllon for his selfish consideration. That look ex- 
pressed the hunger and thirst which in no other way did Chiquola 
deign to acknowledge ; but that hunger and thirst were not for 
food but for blood ; — -revenge, the atonement for his wrongs and 
shame. Never had the free limbs of Indian warrior known such 
an indignity — never could indignity have been conceived less en- 
durable. No words can describe, as no mind can imagine, the 
volume of tumultuous strife, and fiercer, maddening thoughts 
and feelings, boiling and burning in the brain and bosom of the 
gallant but inconsiderate youth; — thoughts and feelings so 
strangely subdued, so completely hidden in those composed mus- 
cles, — only speaking through that dilating, but fixed, keen, invet- 
erate eye ! 

De Ayllon was perplexed. The remaining captives gave him 
little or no trouble. Plied with the liquors which had seduced 
them at first, they were very generally in that state of drunken- 
ness, when a certainty of continued supply reconciles the de- 
graded mind very readily to any condition. But with Chiquola 
the case was very different. Here, at least, was character — the 
pride of self-dependence ; the feeling of moral responsibility ; 
the ineradicable consciousness of that shame which prefers to 


448 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


feel itself and not to be blinded. De Ayllon had known the sav- 
age nature only under its feebler and meaner aspects. The timid 
islanders of the Lucayos — the spiritless and simple natives of 
Hayti — were of quite another class. The Indian of the North 
American continent, whatever his vices or his weaknesses, was 
yet a man. He was more. He was a conqueror — accustomed 
to conquer ! It was his boast that where he came he stood ; 
where he stood he remained ; and where he remained, he was the 
only man ! The people whom he found were women. He made 
them and kept them so. — 

“ Severe the school that made them bear 
The ills of life without a tear ; 

And stern the doctrine that denied 
The sachem fame, the warrior pride, 

Who, urged by nature’s wants, confess’d 
The need that hunger’d in his breast : — 

Or, when beneath his foeman’s knife, 

Who utter’d recreant prayer for life ; — 

Or, in the chase, whose strength was spent, 

Or, in the fight, whose knee was bent ; 

Or, when with tale of coming fight, 

Who sought his allies’ camp by night, 

And, ere the Missives well were told, 

Complain’d of hunger, wet and cold ! — 

A woman, if in strife, his foe, 

Could give, yet not receive, a blow ; — 

Or if, undextrously and dull, 

His hand and knife should fail to win 
The dripping warm scalp from the skull 
To trim his yellow mocasin !” 

Such was the character of his race, and Chiquola was no rec- 
reant. Such was his character. He had no complaint. He 
looked no emotions. The marble could not have seemed less cor- 
rigible ; and, but for that occasional flashing from his dark eye, 
whenever any of his captors drew near to the spot where he sat, 
none would have fancied that in his bosom lurked a single feeling 
of hostility or discontent. Still he ate not and drank not. It was 
obvious to the Spaniard that he had adopted the stern resolution 
to forbear all sustenance, and thus defeat the malice of his ene- 
mies. He had no fear of death, and he could not endure bonds. 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


449 


That he would maintain that resolution to the last, none could 
doubt who watched his sullen immobility — who noted the fact, 
that he spoke nothing, neither in the language of entreaty nor 
complaint. He was resolved on suicide ! It is an error to sup- 
pose, as has been asserted, that the Indians never commit suicide. 
The crime is a very common one among them in periods of great 
national calamity. The Cherokee warrior frequently destroyed 
himself when the small pox had disfigured his visage : for, it 
must be remembered, that an Indian warrior is, of all human be- 
ings, one of the vainest, on the score of his personal appearance. 
He unites, as they are usually found united even in the highest 
states of civilization, the strange extremes of ferocity and fri- 
volity. 

De Ayllon counselled with his officers as to what should be done 
with their captive. He would certainly die on their hands. 
Balthazar de Morla, his lieutenant — a stern fierce savage himself 
— proposed that they should kill him, as a way of shortening their 
trouble, and dismissing all farther cares upon the project. 

“ Hje is but one,” said he, “ and though you may call him King 
or Cassique, he will sell for no more than any one of his own 
tribe in the markets of Isabella. At worst, it will only be a loss 
to him, for the fellow is resolved to die. He will bring you no- 
thing, unless for the skin of his carcase, and that is not a large 
one.” 

A young officer of more humanity, Jaques Carazon, offered 
different counsel. He recommended that the poor Indian be 
taken on deck. The confinement in the cabin he thought had 
sickened him. The fresh air, and the sight of the sky and 
sea, might work a change and provoke in him a love of life. 
Reasoning from the European nature, such advice would most 
probably have realized the desired effect; and De Ayllon was 
struck with it. 

“ Let it be done,” he said ; and Chiquola was accordingly 
brought up from below, and placed on the quarter deck in a pleas- 
ant and elevated situation. At first, the effect promised to be such 
as the young officer had suggested. There was a sudden look- 
ing up, in all the features of the captive. His eyes were no 
longer cast down ; and a smile seemed to pass over the lips 


450 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


which, of late, had been so rigidly compressed. He looked long, 
and with a keen expression of interest at the sky above, and the 
long stretch of water before and around him. But there was one 
object of most interest, upon which his eyes fastened with a seem- 
ing satisfaction. This was the land. The low sandy shores and 
island slips that skirt the Georgia coast, then known under the 
general name of Florida, lay on the right. The gentleness of 
the breeze, and smoothness of the water, enabled the ships, which 
were of light burthen, to pursue a course along with the land, at 
a small distance, varying from five to ten miles. Long and ear- 
nestly did the captive gaze upon this, to him, Elysian tract. 
There dwelt tribes, he well knew, which were kindred to his peo- 
ple. From any one of the thousand specks of shore which 
caught his eye, he could easily find his way back to his queen 
anti country! What thoughts of bliss and wo, at the “same mo- 
ment, did these two images suggest to his struggling and agonized 
spirit. Suddenly, he caught the eyes of the Spanish Captain ga- 
zing upon him, with a fixed, inquiring glance ; and his own eyes 
were instantly averted from those objects which he alone desired 
to see. It would seem as if he fancied that the Spaniard was 
able to look into his soul. His form grew more erect beneath the 
scrutiny of his captor, and his countenance once more put on its 
former expression of immobility. 

De Ayllon approached, followed by a boy bringing fresh food 
and wine, which were once more placed within his reach. By 
signs, the Spaniard encouraged him to eat. The Indian returned 
him not the slightest glance of recognition. His eye alone spoke, 
and its language was still that of hate and defiance. De Ayllon 
left him, and commanded that none should approach or seem to 
observe him. He conjectured that his stubbornness derived some- 
thing of its stimulus from the consciousness that eyes of strange 
curiosity were fixed upon him, and that Nature would assert 
her claims if this artificial feeling were suffered to subside with- 
out farther provocation. 

But when three hours more had elapsad, and the food still re- 
mained untouched, De Ayllon was in despair. He approached 
Chiquola, attended by the fierce Balthazar de Morla. 

“ Why do you not eat, savage !” exclaimed this person, shaking 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


451 


his hand threateningly at the Indian, and glancing upon him with 
the eyes of one, only waiting and anxious for the signal to strike 
and slay. If the captive failed to understand the language of 
the Spaniard, that of his looks and action was in no wise unequiv- 
ocal. Chiquola gave him glance for glance. His eye lighted 
up with those angry fires which it shed when going into battle ; 
and it was sufficiently clear to both observers, that nothing more 
was needed than the freedom of hand and foot to have brought 
the unarmed but unbending savage, into the death grapple with 
his insulting enemy. The unsubdued tiger-like expression 
of the warrior, was rather increased than subdued by famine ; 
and even De Ayllon recoiled from a look which made him mo- 
mentarily forgetful of the cords which fastened the limbs and ren- 
dered impotent the anger of his captive. He reproved Balthazar 
for his violence, and commanded him to retire. Then, speaking 
gently, he endeavoured to soothe the irritated Indian, by kind tones 
and persuasive action. He pointed to the food, and, by signs, en- 
deavoured to convey to his mind the idea of the painful death 
which must follow his wilful abstinence much longer. For a few 
moments Chiquola gave no heed to these, suggestions, hut looking 
round once more to the strip of shore which lay upon his right, a 
sudden change passed over his features. He turned to De Ayllon, 
and muttering a few words* in his own language, nodded his head, 
while his fingers pointed to the ligatures around his elbows and 
ancles. The action clearly denoted a willingness to take his 
food, provided his limbs were set free. De Ayllon proceeded to 
consult with his officers upon this suggestion. The elder, Bal- 
thazar de Morla, opposed the indulgence. 

“ He will attack you the moment he is free.” 

“ But,” replied the younger officer, by whose counsel he had 
already been brought upon the deck — “ but of what avail would 
be his attack ? We are armed, and he is weaponless. We are 
many, and he is but one. It only needs that we should be watch- 
ful, and keep in readiness.” 

“ Well !” said Balthazar, with a sneer, “ I trust that you will 
be permitted the privilege of undoing his bonds ; for if ever sav- 
age had the devil in his eye, this savage has.” 

“ I will do it,” replied the young man, calmly, without seeming 


452 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABLV. 


to heed the sneer. “ I do not fear the savage, even if he should 
grapple with me. But I scarcely think it possible that he would 
attempt such a measure. He has evidently too much sense for 
that.” 

“ Desperate men have no sense !” said the other ; but the coun- 
sels of the younger officer prevailed with De Ay lion, and he was 
commissioned to undo the bonds of the captive. At the same time 
every precaution was taken, that the prisoner, when set free, 
should do the young man no hurt. Several soldiers were sta- 
tioned at hand, to interpose in the event of danger, and De Ayl- 
lon and Balthazar, both with drawn swords, stood beside Jaques 
Carazon as he bent down on one knee to perform the duty of sup- 
posed danger which had been assigned him. But their appre- 
hensions of assault proved groundless. Whether it was that Chi- 
quo] a really entertained no design of mischief, or that he was re- 
strained by prudence, on seeing the formidable preparations which 
had been made to baffle and punish any such attempt, he remain- 
ed perfectly quiescent, and, even after his limbs had been freed, 
showed no disposition to use them. 

“ Eat !” said De Ayllop, pointing to the food. The captive 
looked at him in silence, but the food remained untouched. 

“ His pride keeps him from it,” said De Ayllon. “ He will 
not eat so long as we are looking on him. Let us withdraw to 
some little distance and watch him.” 

His orders were obeyed. The soldiers were despatched to 
another quarter of the vessel, though still commanded to remain 
under arms. De Ayllon with his two officers then withdrew, con- 
cealing themselves in different situations where they might ob- 
serve all the movements of the captive. For a time, this arrange- 
ment promised to be as little productive of fruits as the previous 
ones. Chiquola remained immovable, and the food untouched. 
But, after a while, when he perceived that none was immediately 
near, his crouching form might be seen in motion, but so slightly, 
so slily, that it was scarcely perceptible to those who watched 
him. His head revolved slowly, and his neck turned, without 
any coriesponding movement of his limbs, until he was able to take 
in all objects, which he might possibly see, on almost every part 
of the deck. The man at the helm, the sailor on the yard, while 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


453 


beholding him, scarcely saw the cat-like movement of his eyes. 
These, when he had concluded his unobtrusive examination of the 
vessel, were turned upon the shore, with the expression of an ea* 
ger joy. His heart spoke out its feelings in the flashing of his di. 
lating and kindled eyes. He was free. That was the feeling of 
his soul ! That was the feeling which found utterance in his 
glance. The degrading cords were no longer on the limbs of the 
warrior, and was not his home almost beneath his eyes ? He 
started to his feet erect. He looked around him ; spurned the 
food and the wine cup from his path, and shrieking the war whoop 
of his tribe, with a single rush and bound, he plunged over the 
sides of the vessel into those blue waters which dye, with the com- 
plexion of the Gulf, the less beautiful waves of the Atlantic. 

.This movement, so unexpected by the captors, was quite too 
sudden for them to prevent. De Ayllon hurried to the side of 
his vessel as soon as he distinguished the proceeding. He beheld, 
with mingled feelings of admiration and disappointment, where the 
bold savage was buffeting the billows in the vain hope of reaching 
the distant shores. A boat was instantly let down into the sea, 
manned with the ablest seamen of the ship. It was very clear 
that Chiquola could neither make the land, nor contend very long 
with the powerful waters of the deep. This would have been a 
task beyond the powers of the strongest man, and the most skilful 
swimmer, and the brave captive had been without food more thap 
twenty-four hours. Still he could be seen, striving vigorously 
in a course straight as an arrow for the shore ; rising from bil 
low to billow ; now submerged, still ascending, and apparently 
without any diminution of the vigour with which he began his 
toils. 

The rowers, meanwhile, plied their oars, with becoming energy 
The Indian, though a practiced swimmer, began, at length, to show 
signs of exhaustion. He was seen from the ship, and with the aid of 
a glass, was observed to be struggling feebly. The boat was gaining 
rapidly upon him. He might be saved. It needed only that he 
should will it so. Would he hut turn and employ his remaining 
strength in striving for the boat, instead of wasting it in an idle 
effort for those shores which he could never more hope to see ! 

“He turns!” cried De Ayllon. “He will yet be saved 


454 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


The boat will reach him soon. A few strokes more, and they 
are up with him !” 

“ He turns, indeed,” said Carazon, “ but it is to wave his hand 
in defiance.” 

“ They reach him — they are up with him !” exclaimed the for- 
mer. 

“ Ay !” answered the latter, “ but he sinks — he has gone 
down.” 

“ No ! they have taken him into the boat !” 

“ You mistake, sir, do you not see where he rises ? almost a 
ship’s length on the right of the boat. There spoke the savage 
soul. He will not be saved !” 

This was true. Chiquola preferred death to bondage. The 
boat changed its course with that of the swimmer. Once more 
it neared him. Once more the hope of De Ay lion was excited 
as he beheld the scene from the ship ; and once more the voice 
of his lieutenant cried discouragingly — 

“ He has gone down, and for ever. He will not suffer us to 
save him.” 

This time he spoke truly. The captive had disappeared. The 
boat, returning now, alone appeared above the waters, and De 
Ayllon turned away from the scene, wondering much at the in- 
domitable spirit and fearless courage of the savage,- but thinking 
much more seriously of the large number of pesos which this 
transaction had cost him. It was destined to cost him more, but 
of this hereafter. 


LUCAS DE AYLLON 


455 


CHAPTER III. 

COMEAHEE ; OR, THE LAST VOYAGE OF LUCAS DE AYLLON. 

“ Bind him, I say ; 

Make every artery and sinew crack ; 

The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek, 

Shall have ten thousand drachmas ! Wretch ! I’ll force thee 
To curse the Pow*r thou worship’st.” 

Massinger . — The Virgin Martyr. 

But the losses of De Ayllon were not to end with the death of 
his noble captive, the unfortunate Chiquola. We are told by the 
historian, that “one of his vessels foundered before he reached 
his port, and captors and captives were swallowed up in the 
sea together. His own vessel survived, but many of his captives 
sickened and died; and he himself was reserved for the time, 
only to suffer a more terrible form of punishment. Though he 
had lost more than half of the ill-gotten fruits of his 'expedition, 
the profits which remained were still such as to encourage him 
to a renewal of his enterprise. To this he devoted his whole for- 
tune, and, with three large vessels and many hundred men, he 
once more descended upon the coast of Carolina.”* 

Meanwhile, the dreary destiny of Combahee was to live alone. 
We have heard so much of the inflexibility of the Indian charac- 
ter, that we are apt to forget that these people are human ; hav- 
ing, though perhaps in a small degree, and in less activity, the same 
vital passions, the same susceptibilities — the hopes, the fears, the 
loves and the 'hates, which establish the humanity of the whites. 
They are colder and more sterile, — more characterized by indi- 
viduality and self-esteem than any more social people j^and these 
characteristics are the natural and inevitable results of their hab- 
its of wandering. But to suppose that the Indian is “ a man 
without a tear,” is to indulge in a notion equally removed from 


* History of South Carolina, page 11. 


456 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


poetry and truth. At all events, such an opinion is, to say the 
least of it, a gross exaggeration of the fact. 

Combahee, the Queen of Chiquola, had many tears. She was 
a young wife ; — the crime of De Ayllon had made her a young 
widow. Of the particular fate of her husband she knew nothing; 
and, in the absence of any certain knowledge, she naturally 
feared the worst. The imagination, once excited by fear, is the 
darkest painter of the terrible that nature has ever known. Still, 
the desolate woman did not feel herself utterly hopeless. Daily 
she manned her little bark, and was paddled along the shores of 
the sea, in a vain search after that which could never more be 
found. At other times she sat upon, or wandered along, the head- 
lands, in a lonely and silent watch over those vast, dark, dashing 
waters of the Atlantic, little dreaming that they had already long 
since swallowed up her chief. Wan and wretched, the suste- 
nance which she took was simply adequate to the purposes of life 
Never did city maiden more stubbornly deplore the lost object a 
her affections than did this single-hearted woman. But her prayers 
and watch were equally unavailing. Vainly did she skirt the 
shores in her canoe by day ; — vainly did she build her fires, as a 
beacon, to guide him on his home return by night. His people 
had already given him up for ever ; but love is more hopeful of 
the object which it loves. She did not yet despair. Still she 
wept, but still she watched ; and when she ceased to weep, it was 
only at moments when the diligence of her watch made her for- 
getful of her tears. 

The season was becoming late. The fresh and invigorating 
breezes of September began to warn the tribes of the necessity of 
seeking the shelter of the woods. The maize was already gather- 
ed and bruised for the stocks of winter. The fruits of summer 
had been dried, and the roots were packed away. The chiefs 
regarded the condition of mind under which their Queen laboured 
with increasing anxiety. She sat apart upov the highest hill that 
loomed out from the shore, along the deep. She sat beneath the 
loftiest palmetto. A streamer of fringed cotton was hung from its 
top as a signal to the wanderer, should he once more be permit- 
ted to behold the land, apprizing him where the disconsolate wid- 
ow kept her watch. The tribes looked on from a distance un- 


LUCAvS DE AYLLON. 


4o? 


willing to disturb those sorrows, which, under 01 linary circum- 
stances, they consider sacred. The veneration which they felt 
for their Queen increased this feeling. Yet so unremitting had 
been her self-abandonment — so devoted and unchangeable her 
daily employments, that some partial fears began to be enter- 
tained lest her reason might suffer. She had few words now for 
her best counsellors. These few words, it is true, were always 
to the purpose, vet they were spoken with impatience, amounting 
to severity. The once gentle and benignant woman had grown 
stern. There was a stony inflexibility about her glance which 
distressed the observer, and her cheeks had become lean and thin, 
and her frame feeble and languid, in singular contrast with that 
intense spiritual light which flashed, whenever she was addressed, 
from her large black eyes. 

Something must be done ! such was the unanimous opinion of 
the chiefs. Nay, two things were to be done. She was to be cured 
of this affection ; and it was necessary that she should choose 
one, from among her “ beloved men,” — one, who should take the 
place of Chiquola. They came to her, at length, with this object. 
Combahee was even then sitting upon the headland of St. Helena. 
She looked out with straining eyes upon the sea. She had seen 
a speck. They spoke to her, but she motioned them to be silent, 
while she pointed to the object. It disappeared, like a thousand 
others. It was some porpoise, or possibly some wandering gram- 
pus, sending up his jets d’eau in an unfamiliar ocean. Long 
she looked, but profitlessly. The object of her sudden hope had 
already disappeared. She turned to the chiefs. They prostrated 
themselves before her. Then, the venerable father, Kiawah, — 
an old man who had witnessed the departure of an hundred and 
twenty summers, — rose, and seating himself before her, addressed 
her after the following fashion : 

“ Does the daughter of the great Ocketee, look into the grave 
of the warrior that he may come forth because she looks V* 

“ He sleeps, father, for Combahee. He has gone forth to hunt 
the deer in the blue land of Maneyto.” 

“ Good ! he has gone. Is the sea a hunting land for the 
brave Chiquola ? Is he not also gone to the blue land of 
spirits V* 


458 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


“ Know’st thou ? Who has told Kiawah, the old father 1 Has 
it come to him in a dream ?” 

“ Chiquola has come to him.” 

“ Ah !” 

“ He is a hunter for Maneyto. He stands first among the hunt- 
ers in the blue forests of Maneyto. The smile of the Great Spirit 
beckons him to the chase. He eats of honey in the golden tents 
of the Great Spirit.” 

“ He has said ? Thou hast seen ?” 

“ Even so ! Shall Kiawah say to Combahee the thing which 
is not ? Chiquola is dead !” 

The woman put her hand upon her heart with an expression 
of sudden pain. But she recovered herself with a little effort. 

“ It is true what Kiawah has said. I feel it here. But Chi- 
quola will come to Combahee ?” 

“ Yea ! He will come. Let my daughter go to the fountain 
and bathe thrice before night in its waters. She will bid them 
prepare the feast of flesh. A young deer shall be slain by the 
hunters. Its meat shall be dressed, of that shall she eat, while 
the maidens sing the song of victory, and dance the dance of re- 
joicing aiound her. For there shall be victory and rejoicing. 
Three days shall my daughter do this ; and the night of the third 
day shall Chiquola come to her when she sleeps. She shall hear 
his voice, she shall do his bidding, and there shall be blessings. 
Once more shall Combahee smile among her people.” 

He was obeyed religiously. Indeed, his was a religious au- 
thority. Kiawah was a famous priest and prophet among the 
tribes of the sea coast of Carolina — in their language an Iawa, — 
a man renowned for his supernatural powers. A human policy 
may be seen in the counsels of the old man ; but by the Indians 
it was regarded as coming from a superior source. For three 
days did Combahee perform her lustrations, as required, and 
partake plentifully of the feast 'which had been prepared. The 
third night, a canopy of green bushes was reared for her by the 
sea side around the palmetto where sh^ had been accustomed to 
watch, and from which her.cotton streamer was still flying. Thith- 
er she repaired as the yellow moon was rising above the sea. It 
rose, bright and round, and hung above her tent, looking down 


1.UCAS DE AYLLON. 


459 


with eyes of sad, sweet brilliance, like some hueless diamond, 
about to weep, through the green leaves, and into the yet unclosed 
eyes of the disconsolate widow. The great .ocean all the while 
kept up a mournful chiding and lament along the shores. It was 
long before Combahee could sleep. She vainly strove to shut her 
eyes. She could not well do so, because of her. expectation, and 
because of that chiding sea, and those sad eyes of the moon, big, 
wide, down staring upon her. At length she ceased to behold the 
moon and to hear the ocean ; but, in place of these, towards the 
rising of the mor.ning star, she .heard the voice of Chiquola, and 
beheld the young warrior to whom her virgin heart had been 
given. He was habited in loose flowing robes of blue, a bunch 
of feathers, most like a golden sunbeam, was on his brow, bound 
there by a circle of little stars. He carried a bow of bended sil- 
ver, and his arrows looked like darts of summer lightning. Tru- 
ly, in the eyes of the young widow, Chiquola looked like a very 
god himself. He spoke to her in a language that was most like 
a song. It was a music such as the heart hears when it first 
loves and when hope is the companion of its affections. Never 
was music in the ears of Combahee so sweet. 

“ Why sits the woman that I love beside the cold ocean ? Why 
does she watch the black waters for Chiquola ? Chiquola is not 
there.” 

The breathing of the woman was suspended with delight. She 
could not speak. She could only hear. 

“ Arise, my beloved, and look up at Chiquola.” 

“ Chiquola is with the Great Spirit. Chiquola. is happy in the 
blue forests of Maneyto ;” at length she found strength for utter- 
ance. 

“ No ! Chiquola is cold. There must be fire to warm Chiquo- 
la, for he perished beneath the sea. His limbs are full of water. 
He would dry himself. Maneyto smiles, around him are the blue 
forests, he chases the brown deer, till the setting of the sun ; 
but his limbs are cold. Combahee will build him a fire of the 
bones of his enemies, that the limbs of Chiquola may be made 
warm against the winter.” 

The voice ceased, the bright image was gone. In vain was it 
that tht woman, gathering courage in his absence, implored him 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIM. 


to return She saw him no more, and in his place the red eye 
of the v arrior star of morning was looking steadfastly upon her. 

But where were the enemies of Chiquola ? The tribes were 
all at peace. The war-paths upon which Chiquola had gone had 
been very few, and the calumet had been smoked in token of 
peace and amity among them all. Of whose bones then should 
the fire be made which was to warm the limbs of the departed 
warrior ? This was a question to afflict the wisest heads of the 
nation, and upon this difficulty they met, in daily council, from 
the moment that the revelation of Chiquola was made known by 
his widow. She, meanwhile, turned not once from her watch 
along the waters where he had disappeared ! For what did she 
now gaze ? Chiquola was no longer there ! Ah ! the fierce spirit 
of the Indian woman had another thought. It was from that 
quarter that the pale warriors came by when he was borne into 
captivity. Perhaps, she had no fancy that they would again re- 
turn. It was an instinct rather than a thought, which made her 
look out upon the waters and dream at moments that she had 
glimpses of their large white- winged canoes. 

Meanwhile, the Iawas and chief men sat in council, and the 
difficulty about the bones of which the fire was to be made, con- 
tinued as great as ever. As a respite from this difficulty they de- 
bated at intervals another and scarcely less serious question : 

“ Is it good for Combahee to be alone ?” 

This question was decided in the negative by an unanimous 
vote. It was observed, though no argument seemed necessary, 
that all the younger and more handsome chiefs made long speech- 
es in advocacy of the marriage of their Queen. It was also ob- 
served that, immediately after the breaking up of the council, each 
darted off to his separate wigwam, and put on his newest moca- 
sins, brightest leggins, his yellowest hunting shirt, and his most 
gorgeous belt of shells. Each disposed his plumes after the fash- 
ion of his own taste, and adjusted, with newer care, the quiver at 
his back ; and each strove, when the opportunity offered, to leap, 
dance, run, climb, and shoot, in the presence of the lovely and 
potent woman. 

Once more the venerable Iawa presented himself before the 
Queen. 


LUCAS DE AYLLON 


461 


“ The cabin of my daughter has but one voice. There must 
be another. What sings the Coonee Latee ? (mocking-bird.) 
He says, ‘ though the nest be withered and broken, are there not 
sticks and leaves ; shall I not build another ? Though the mate- 
wing be gone to other woods, shall no other voice take up the strain 
which I am singing, and barter with me in the music which is 
love V Daughter, the beloved men have been in council ; and 
they say, the nest must be repaired with newer leaves ; and 
the sad bird must sing lonely no longer. Are there not other 
birds ? Lo ! behold them, my daughter, where they run and 
bound, and sing and dance. Choose from these, my daughter, — 
choose the noblest, that the noble blood of Ocketee may not per- 
ish for ever.” * 

“ Ah !” — she said impatiently — “ but have the beloved men 
found the enemies of Chiquola ? Do they say, here are the 
bones ?” 

“ The Great Spirit has sent no light to the cabin of council.” 

“ Enough ! when the beloved men shall find the bones which 
were the enemies of Chiquola, then will the Coonee Latee take 
a mate-wing to her cabin. It is not meet that Combahee should 
build the fire for another hunter before she has dried the water 
from the limbs of Chiquola !” 

“ The Great Spirit will smile on their search. Meanwhile, let 
Combahee choose one from among our youth, that he may be 
honoured by the tribe.” 

“ Does my father say this to the poor heart of Combahee ?” 

“ It is good.” 

“ Take this,” she said, “ to Edelano, the tall brother of Chi- 
quola. He is most like the chief. Bid him wear it on his 
breast. Make him a chief among our people. He is the choice 
of Combahee.” 

She took from her neck as she spoke, a small plate of rudely 
beaten native gold, upon which the hands of some native artist, 
had, with a pointed flint or shell, scratched uncouth presentments 
of the native deer, the eagle, and other objects of their frequent 
observation. 

“ Give it him — to Edelano !” — she added ; “ but let him not 
come to Combahee till the beloved men shall have said — these 


462 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN 


are the bones of the enemies of Chiquola. Make of these the 
fires which shall warm him.” 

There was something so reasonable in what was said by the 
mourning Queen, that the patriarch was silenced. To a certain 
extent he had failed of his object. That was to direct her mind 
from the contemplation of her loss by the substitution of another 
in his place — the philosophy of those days and people, not unlike 
that of our own, leading people to imagine that the most judicious 
and successful method for consoling a widow is by making her a 
wife again as soon as possible. Combahee had yielded as far as 
could be required of her : yet still they were scarcely nearer to 
the object of their desire : for where were the bones of Chiquola’s 
enemies to be found? — He* who had no enemies! He, with 
whom all the tribes were at peace ? And those whom he had 
slain, — where were their bodies to be found ? They had long 
been hidden by their friends in the forests where no enemy might 
trace out their places of repose. As for the Spaniards-^-the white 
men — of these the Indian sages did not think. They had come 
from the clouds, perhaps, — but certainly, they were not supposed 
to have belonged to any portion of the solid world to which they 
were accustomed. As they knew not where to seek for the “ pale 
faces,” these were not the subjects of their expectation. 

The only person to whom the proceedings, so far, had produced 
any results, was the young warrior, Edelano. He became a 
chief in compliance with the wish of Combahee, and, regarded as 
her betrothed, was at once admitted into the hall of council, and 
took his place as one of the heads and fathers of the tribe. His 
pleasant duty was to minister to the wants and wishes of his 
spouse, to provide the deer, to protect her cabin, to watch her 
steps — subject to the single and annoying qualification, that he 
was not to present himself conspicuously to her eyes. But how 
could youthful lover — one so brave and ardent as Edelano — sub- 
mit to such interdict ? It would have been a hard task to one far 
less brave, and young, and ardent, than Edelano. With him it 
was next to impossible. For a time he bore his exclusion man- 
fully. Set apart by betrothal, he no longer found converse oj 
association with the young women of the tribe ; and his soul was 
accordingly taken up with the one image of his Queen and future 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


463 


upouse. He hung about her steps like a shadow, but she beheld 
him not. He darted along the beach when she was gazing forth 
upon the big, black ocean, but he failed to win her glance. He 
sang, while hidden in the forest, as she wandered through its 
glooms, the wildest and sweetest songs of Indian love and fancy ; 
but her ear did not seem to note any interruption of that sacred 
silence which she sought. Never was sweeter or tenderer veni- 
son placed by the young maidens before her, than that which 
Edelano furnished ; the Queen ate little and did not seem to note 
its obvious superiority. The devoted young chief was in despair. 
He knew not what to do. Unnoticed, if not utterly unseen by 
day, he hung around her tent by night. Here, gliding by like a 
midnight spectre, or crouching beneath some neighbouring oak or 
myrtle, he mused for hours, catching with delighted spirit every 
sound, however slight, which might come to his ears from within ; 
and occasionally renewing his fond song of devoted attachment, 
in the hope that, amidst the silence of every other voice, his own 
might be better heard. But the soughing of the sad winds and 
the chafing of the waters against the sandy shores, as they re- 
minded the mourner of her loss, were enough to satisfy her vacant 
senses, and still no token reached the unwearied lover that his 
devotion had awakened the attention of the object to whom it was 
paid. 

Every day added to his sadness and his toils ; until the effect 
began to be as clearly visible on his person as on hers ; and the 
gravity of the sages became increased, and they renewed the in- 
quiry, more and more frequently together, “ Where can the bones 
of Chiquola’s enemies be found V* 

The answer to this question was about to be received from an 
unexpected quarter. The sun was'revolving slowly and certain- 
ly while the affairs of the tribe seemed at a stand. The period 
when he should cross the line was approaching, and the usual 
storms of the equinox were soon to be apprehended. Of these 
annual periods of storm and terror, the aborigines, through long 
experience, were quite as well aware as a more book -wise peo 
pie. To fly to the shelter of the forests was the policy of the In- 
dians at such periods. We have already seen that they had been 
for some time ready for departure. But Combahee gave no hee 


464 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


to their suggestions. A superstitious instinct made them willing 
to believe that the Great Spirit would interfere in his own good 
time; and, at the proper juncture, bestow the necessary light foi 
their guidance. Though anxious, therefore, they did not press 
their meditations upon those of their princess. They deferred, 
with religious veneration, to her griefs. But their anxiety was 
not lessened as the month of September advanced — as the days 
became capricious, — as the winds murmured more and more 
mournfully along the sandy shores, and as the waters of the sea 
grew more blue, and put on their whiter crests of foam. The 
clouds grew banked in solid columns, like the gathering wings of 
an invading army, on the edges of the southern and southeastern 
horizon. Sharp, shrill, whistling gusts, raised a warning anthem 
through the forests, which sounded like the wild hymn of the advan- 
cing storm. The green leaves had suddenly become yellow as in 
the progress of the night, and the earth was already strewn with 
their fallen honours. The sun himself was growing dim as with 
sudden age. All around, in sky, sea and land, the presentments 
were obvious of a natural but startling change. If the anxieties 
of the people were increased, what were those of Edelano ? Heed- 
less of the threatening aspects around her, the sad-hearted Com- 
bahee, whose heaviest storm was in her own bosom, still wilfully ■ 
maintained her precarious lodge beneath the palmetto, on the 
bleak head-land which looked out most loftily upon the sea. The , 
wind strewed the leaves of her forest tent upon her as she slept, 
but she was conscious of no disturbance ; and its melancholy : 
voice, along with that of the ocean, seemed to her to increase in 
interest and sweetness as they increased in vigour. She heeded { 
not that the moon was absent from the night. She saw not that ■ 
black clouds had risen in her place, and looked down with visage I 
full of terror and of frowning. It did not move her fears that the 
palmetto under which she lay, groaned within its tough coat of i 
bark, as it bent to and fro beneath the increasing pressure of the 
winds. She was still thinking of the wet, cold form of the brave 
Chiquola. 

The gloom thickened. It was the eve of the 23d of September. 
All day the winds had been rising. The ocean poured in upon 
he shores. There was little light that dav. All was fog, dense 


465 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 

fog, and a driving vapour, that only was not rain. The watchful 
Edelano added to the boughs around the lodge of the Queen. 
The chief men approached her with counsel to persuade her to 
withdraw to the cover of the stunted thickets, so that she might be 
secure. But her resolution seemed to have grown more firm, and 
duly to increase in proportion to their entreaties. She had an 
answer, which, as it appealed to their superstitions, was conclusive 
to silence them. 

“ I have seen him. But last night he came to me. Id s brow 
was bound about with a cloud, such as goes round the moon. 
From his eye shot arrows of burning fire, like those of the storm. 
He smiled upon me, and bade me smile. ‘Soon shalt thou warm 
me, Combahee, with the blazing bones of mine enemies. Be of 
good cheer — watch well that ye behold them where they lie. Thou 
shalt see them soon.’ Thus spoke the chief. He whispers to my 
heart even now. Dost thou not hear him, Kiawah ? He says 
soon — it will be soon !” 

Such an assurance was reason good why she should continue 
her desolate and dangerous watch. The generous determination 
of the tribe induced them to share it with her. But this they did 
not suffer her to see. Each reared his temporary lodge in the 
most sheltered contiguous places, under his favourite clump of 
trees. Where the growth was stunted, and the thicket dense, lit- 
tle groups of women and children were made to harbour in situa- 
tions of comparative security. But the warriors and brave men 
of the tribe advanced along the shores to positions of such shelter 
as they could find, but sufficiently nigh to their Queen to give her 
the necessary assistance in moments of sudden peril. The more 
devoted Edelarro, presuming upon the prospective tie which was 
to give him future privileges, quietly laid himself down behind the 
isolated lodge of the princess, with a delight at being so near to 
her, that made him almost forgetful of the dangers of her exposed 
situation. 

He was not allowed to forget them, however ! The storm in- 
creased with the progress of the night. Never had such an 
equinoctial gale been witnessed, since the memory of Kiawah. 
The billows roared as if with the agony of so many wild monsters 
under the scourge of some imperious demon. The big trees of 

31 


466 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


the forest groaned, and bent, and bowed, and were snapped off, 
or torn up by the roots ; while the seas, surcharged with the wa- 
ters of the Gulf, rushed in upon the land and threatened to over- 
whelm and swallow it. The waves rose to the brow of the head- 
land, and small streams came flashing around the lodge of Com- 
bahee. Her roof-tree bent and cracked, but, secure in its lowli- 
ness, it still stood ; but the boughs were separated and whirled 
away, and, at the perilous moment, the gallant Edelano, who had 
forborne, through a natural timidity, to come forward until the 
last instant, now darted in, and with a big but fast beating heart, 
clasped the woman of his worship to his arms and bore her, as if 
she had been a child, to the stunted thickets which gave a shelter 
to the rest. But, even while they fled — amidst all the storm — a 
sudden sound reached the ears of the Queen, which seemed to 
awaken in her a new soul of energy. A dull, booming noise, 
sullen, slow rolling, sluggish, -^something like that of thunder, 
rolled to their ears, as if it came from off the seas. No thunder 
had fallen from the skies in the whole of the previous tempest. 
No lightning had illuminated to increase the gloom. “ What is 
that sound,” said the heart of Combahee, filled with its supersti- 
tious instincts, “ but the thunder of the pale-faces — the sudden 
thunder which bellows from the sides of their big- winged canoes ?” 

With this conviction in her mind, it was no longer possible for 
Edelano to detain her. Again and again did that thunder reach 
their ears, slowly booming along the black precipices of the ocean. 
The warriors and chiefs peered along the shores, with straining 
eyes, seeking to discover the hidden objects ; and among these, 
with dishevelled hair, quivering lips, eyes which dilated with the 
wildest fires of an excited, an inspired soul, the form of Comba- 
hee was conspicuous. Now they saw the sudden flash — now they 
heard the mournful roar of the minute gum — and then all was 
silent. 

“ Look closely, Kiawah — look closely, Edelano ; for what said 
the ghost of Chiquola ? — ‘ watch well ! Soon shall ye see where 
the bones of‘ my enemies lie.’ — And who were the enemies of 
Chiquola ? Who but the pale-faces ? It is their thunder that 
we hear — the thunder of their big canoes. Hark, ye hear it now, 
— an,d hear ye no cries as of men that drown and struggle ^ 


LUCAS DE AYLLON 


4C7 


Hark ! Hark ! There shall be bones for the fire ere the day 
opens upon us.” 

And thus they watched for two hours, which seemed ages, run- 
ning along the shores, waving their torches, straining the impa- 
tient sight, and calling to one another through.lhe gloom. The 
spirit of the bravest warrior quailed when he beheld the fearless 
movements of Combahee, down to the very edges of the ocean 
gulf, defying the mounting waves, that dashed their feathery jets 
of foam, twenty feet above them in the air. The daylight came 
at last, but with it no relaxation of the storm. With its light 
what a picture of terror presented itself to the eyes of the war- 
riors — what a picture of terror — what a prospect of retribution ! 
There came, head on shore, a noble vessel, still struggling, still 
striving, but predestined to destruction. Her sails were Hying in 
shreds, her principal masts were gone, her movement was like 
that of a drunken man — reeling to and fro — the very mockery of 
those winds and waters, which, at other periods, seem only to have 
toiled to bear her and to do her bidding. Two hundred screaming 
wretches clung to her sides, and clamoured for mercy to the 
waves and shores. Heaven flung back the accents, and theii 
screams now were those of defiance and desperation. Combahee 
heard their cries, detected their despair, distinguished their pale 
faces. Her eyes gleamed with the intelligence of the furies. 
Still beautiful, her wan, thin face, — wan and thin through long 
and weary watching, exposure and want of food — looked like the 
loveliness of some fallen angel. A spirit of beauty in the highest 
degree — a morning star in brightness and brilliance, — but mark- 
ed by the passions of demoniac desolation, and the livid light of 
some avenging hate. Her meagre arms were extended, and wa- 
ved, as if in doom to the onward rushing vessel. 

“Said I not,” she cried to her people, — “ Said I not that there 
should be bones fo£ the fire, which should warm the limbs of 
Chiquola ? — See ! these are they. They come. The warrior 
shall be no longer cold in the blue forests of the good Maneyto.” 

While one ship rushed headlong among the breakers, another 
was seen, bearing away, at a distance, under bare poles. These 
were the only surviving vessels of the armament of Lucas de 
Ayllon. All but these had gone down in the storm, and that which 


468 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


was now rushing to its doom bore the ill-fated De Ayllon himself. 
The historian remarks — (see History of South Carolina, p. 11,) 
— “ As if the retributive Providence had been watchful of the 
place, no less than of the hour of justice, it so happened that, at the 
mouth of the very river where his crime had been committed, he 
was destined to meet his doom.” The Indian traditions go far- 
ther. They say, that the form of Chiquola was beheld by Com- 
bahee, standing upon the prow of the vessel, guiding it to the 
place set apart by the fates for the final consummation of that des- 
tiny which they had allotted to the perfidious Spaniards. We 
will not contend for the tradition ; but the coincidence between 
the place of crime and that of retribution, was surely singular 
enough to impress, not merely upon the savage, but also upon the 
civilized mind, the idea of an overruling and watchful justice. 
The breakers seized upon the doomed ship, as the blood-hounds 
seize upon and rend the expiring carcass of the stricken deer. 
The voice of Combahee was heard above the cries of the drown- 
ing men. She bade her people hasten with their arrows, their 
clubs, their weapons of whatever kind, and follow her to the 
beach. She herself bore a bow in her hand, with a well filled 
quiver at her back ; and as the vessel stranded, as the winds and 
waves rent its planks and timbers asunder, and billows bore the 
struggling and drowning wretches to the shore, the arrows of 
Combahee were despatched in rapid execution. Victim after 
victim sunk, stricken, among the waters, with a death of which 
he had had no fear. The warriors strode, waist deep, into the 
sea, and dealt with their stone hatchets upon the victims. These, 
when despatched, were drawn ashore, and the less daring were 
employed to heap them up, in a vast and bloody mound, for the 
sacrifice of fire. 

The keen eyes of Combahee distinguished the face of the per- 
fidious De Ayllon among the struggling Spaniards. His richer 
dress had already drawn upon him the eyes of an hundred war- 
riors, who only waited with their arrows until the inevitable bil- 
lows should bear him within their reach. 

“ Spare him !” cried the widow of Chiquola. They under- 
stood her meaning at a glance, and a simultaneous shout attested 
their approbation of her resolve. 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


469 


“ The arrows of fire !” was- the cry. The arrows of reed 
and flint were expended upon the humble wrttches from the 
wreck. The miserable De Ayllon little fancied the secret of this 
forbearance. He grasped a spar which assisted his progress, and 
encouraged in the hope of life, as he found himself spared by the 
shafts which were slaying all around him, he was whirled on- 
ward by the breakers to the shore. The knife touched him not 
— the arrow forbore his bosom, but all beside perished. Two 
hundred spirits were dismissed to eternal judgment, in that bloody 
hour of storm and retribution, by the hand of violence. Sense- 
less amidst the dash of the breakers, — unconscious of present or 
future danger, Lucas De Ayllon came within the grasp of the 
fierce warriors, who rushed impatient for their prisoner neck deep 
into the sea. They bore him to the land. They used all the 
most obvious means for his restoration, and had the satisfaction to 
perceive that he at length opened his eyes. When sufficiently 
recovered to become aware of what had been done for him, and 
rushing to the natural conclusion that it had all been done in 
kindness, he smiled upon his captors, and, addressing them in his 
own language, endeavoured still further, by signs and sounds, to 
conciliate their favour. 

“ Enough !” said the inflexible Combahee, turning away from 
the criminal with an expression of strong disgust — 

“ Enough ! wherefore should we linger ? Are not the limbs 
of Chiquola still cold and wet ? The bones of his enemies are 
here — let the young men build the sacrifice. The hand of Com- 
bahee will light the fire arrow !”' 

A dozen warriors now seized upon the form of De Ayllon. 
Even had he not been enfeebled by exhaustion, his struggles 
would have been unavailing. Equally unavailing w ie 1 .is 
prayers and promises. The Indians turned with loathing from 
his base supplications, and requited his entreaties and tears with 
taunts, and bufferings, and scorn ! They bore him, under the in- 
structions of Combahee, to that palmetto, looking out upon th • 
sea, beneath which, for so many weary months, she had maintain- 
ed her lonely watch. The storm had torn her lodge to atoms, 
but the tree was unhurt. They bound him to the shaft with 
withes of grape vines, of which the neighbouring woods had theif 


470 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


abundance. Parcels of light-wood were heaped about nim, 
while, interspersed with other bundles of the resinous pine, were 
piled the bodies of his slain companions. The only living man, 
he was the centre of a pile composed of two hundred, whose fate 
he was now prepared to envy. A dreadful mound, it rose con- 
spicuous, like a beacon, upon the head-land of St. Helena ; he. 
the centre, with his head alone free, and his eyes compelled to sur- 
vey all the terrible preparations which were making for his doom. 
Layers of human carcasses, followed by layers of the most in- 
flammable wood and brush, environed him with a wall from which, 
even had he not been bound to the tree, he could never have ef- 
fected his own extrication. He saw them pile the successive lay- 
ers, sparing the while no moment which he could give to expos 
tulation, entreaty, tears, prayers, and promises. But the work- 
men with steady industry pursued their task. The pile rose, — 
the human pyramid was at last complete ! 

Combahee drew nigh with a blazing torch in her hand. She 
looked the imageof some avenging angel. She gave but a sin- 
gle glance upon the face of the criminal. That face was one of 
an agony which no art could hope to picture. Hers was inflex- 
ible as stone, though it bore the aspect of hate, and loathing, and 
revenge ! She applied the torch amid the increased cries of the 
victim, and as the flame shot up, with a dense black smoke to 
heaven, she turned away to the sea, and prostrated herself beside 
its billows. The shouts of the warriors who surrounded the 
blazing pile attested their delight ; but, though an hundred throals 
sent up their united clamours, the one piercing shriek of the burn- 
ing man was superior, and rose above all other sounds. At length 
it ceased ! all ceased ! The sacrifice was ended. The perfidy 
of the Spaniard was avenged. 

The sudden hush declared the truth to the Queen. She start- 
ed to her feet. She exclaimed : — 

“ Thou art now blessed, Chiquola ! Thou art no longer cold 
in the blue forests of Maneyto. The bon°s of thy enemies have 
warmed thee. I see thee spring gladly upon the chase ; — thine 
eye is bright above the hills ; — thy voice rings cheerfully along 
the woods of heaven. The heart of Combahee is very glad that 
thou art warm and happy.” 


LUCAS DE AYLLON. 


471 


A voice at her side addressed her. The venerable Kiawah, 
and the young Edelano were there. 

“ Now, thou hast done well, my daughter !” said the patr/arcb. 
“ Chiquola is warm and happy in heaven. Let the lodge of Com 
bahee be also warm in the coming winter.” 

“ Ah ! but there is nothing to make it warm hero !” she re- 
plied, putting her hand upon her heart. 

“ The bird will have its mate, and build its nest, and sing a 
new song over its young.” 

“ Com bahee has no more, song.” 

“ The young chief will bring song into her lodge. Edelano will 
build a bright fire upon the hearth of Combahee. Daughter ! 
the chiefs asK, ‘ Is the race of Ocketee to perish V ” 

“ Combahee is ready,” answered the Queen, patiently, giving 
her hand to Edelano. But, even as she spoke, 4he muscles of 
her mouth began to quiver. A sudden groan escaped her, and, 
staggering forward, she would have fallen but for the supporting 
arms of the young chief. They bore her to the shade beneath 
a tree. They poured some of their primitive specifics into her 
mouth, and she revived sufficiently to bid the Patriarch unite her 
with Edelano in compliance with the will of the nation. But the 
ceremony was scarcely over, before a second and third attack 
shook her frame with death-like spasms. They, were, indeed, 
the spasms of death — of a complete paralysis of mind and body. 
Both had been too severely tried, and the day of bridal was also 
that of death. Edelano was now the beloved chief of the nation, 
but the nation was without its Queen. The last exciting scene, 
following hard upon that long and lonely widow-watch which she 
had kept, had suddenly stopped the currents of life within her 
heart, as its currents of hope and happiness had been cut off be- 
fore. True to Chiquola while he lived, to the last moment of her 
life she was true. The voice of Edelano had called her his wife, 
Dut her ears had not heard his speech, and her voice had not re- 
plied. Her hand had been put within his, but no other lips had 
left a kiss where those of Chiquola had been. They buried her 
in a lovely but lonely grove beside the Ashepoo. There, the 
Coonee-Latee first repairs to sing in the opening of spring, and 
the small blue violet peeps out from her grave as if in homage to 




172 


THE WIGWAM AND THE CABIN. 


her courage and devotion. There the dove flies for safety when 
the fowler pursues, and the doe finds a quiet shelter when the bea^ 
gles pant on the opposite side of the stream. The partridge hides 
her young under the long grass which waves luxuriantly above 
the spot, and the eagle and hawk look down, watching from the 
tree-tops in vain. The spirit of the beautiful Princess presides 
over the place as some protecting Divinity, and even the white 
man, though confident in a loftier and nobler faith, still finds 
something in the spot which renders it mysterious, and makes 
him an involuntary worshipper ! Ah! there are deities which 
are common to all human kind, whatever be the faith which they 
maintain. Love is of this sort, and truth, and devotion ; and of 
these the desolate Combahee had a Christian share, though the 
last deed of her life be not justified by the doctrine of Christian 
retribution. T£et, look not, traveller, as in thy bark thou sailest 
beside the lovely headlands of Saint Helena, at the pile of hu- 
man sacrifice which thou seest consuming there. Look at the 
frail lodge beneath the Palmetto, or wander off to the dark 
groves beside the ,Ashepoo and think of the fidelity of that wid- 
owed heart. 


She died for him she loved — her greatest pride, 
That, as for him she lived, for him she died : 

Make her young grave, 

Sweet fancies, where the pleasant branches lave 
Their drooping tassels in some murmuring wave !” 



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